


Don't Go Chasing Rabbits

by KDblack



Series: Don't Go Chasing Rabbits [3]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fritz Smith does not care about your bullshit, Jeremy Fitzgerald is so very broken, M/M, Mike Schmidt has a malfunctioning survival instinct, Other, Scott just wants everyone to get along, This is mine, Unhealthy Relationships, all the androids should check the lost and found, alternate universe - humanoid androids, chica befriends inanimate objects, every fandom needs at least one serious attempt at writing a ridiculous AU premise, phone guy has a name, the cupcake has a name, the desk fan has a name, the games happen concurrently, they are inanimate objects right? right?, they desperately need to find their chill, yeah i went there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2018-07-24 10:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 44,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7504768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDblack/pseuds/KDblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria. A place of dreams. Happiness. Laughter. But only during the day. When the sun goes down, it's a whole different story.</p><p>Mike Schmidt just wanted some extra cash so he could afford to move out of his aunt's place a little sooner. Now he's hip-deep in a horror story that's been playing itself out for over a decade. Every night brings him up close and personal with the personifications of violent death, and that's just the beginning. Freddy's has skeletons jammed in every nook and cranny, and they're about to come spilling out.</p><p>But this isn't the first time Mike's world has turned itself inside out, and like hell he's just going to roll over and die. If he goes down, he's taking the whole house of cards with him.</p><p>And for good or ill, the purple hellbunny is more than willing to drag him down the rabbit hole...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based (loosely) off of Tina-Sapphire's AU, which you can find on DeviantArt. In short: the animatronics are humanoid androids, the timeline has been thoroughly rewritten, Bonnie can't decide if he wants to dismember Mike or kiss him, and the cupcake is gay for the desk fan. There are a bunch of headcanons that go into justifying this, which I will do my best to share.
> 
> It's finally here, folks. The feature presentation begins now.

As expected, Mike's initial meeting with the other security guards does not go well. Jeremy is just as pleasant as he was when Mike ran into him in the hallway, looming over the table with his back straight and his arms crossed. He spends the whole conversation radiating chilly silence and avoiding eye contact. 

Fritz is a bit better, wherein 'better' equals 'actually willing to engage in verbal communication,' but alarm bells started going off the moment Mike laid eyes on him. It's odd; Fritz is the only one at the table who's actually wearing the uniform, and yet he still looks like a street tough. He's barely shorter than Jeremy, and most of his height is leg. Mike knows this because Fritz has planted his feet on the table and refuses to move them. He's got a nice pair of combat boots, covered in scratches and thoroughly broken in. They're the only article of clothing that doesn't look stolen off a mugging victim.

Mike likes to think of himself as someone who doesn't judge by image, but it's really hard to remember that when he's trying not to wonder if Fritz leaves his tie undone so he has a garrote handy. It's funny, because Fritz is actually quite pretty underneath the shaggy, asymmetrical bangs and million shiny piercings. Even the half-shaved head is kind of cute. The centimetre of hair left looks like it'd be really soft. But toss in the dangerously bored look in his half-lidded eyes, a promise of violence held off only by rapidly fading interest in the proceedings, and the fact that Mike hasn't seen Fritz wear an actual expression since he got here, and things start getting scary.

The cap with cute little bear ears on top does surprisingly little to change that. Fritz doesn't seem like the type to let embarrassing headgear keep him from killing anyone who pisses him off.

Then there's Scott. Scott is the sanest person Mike has met tonight, and that's kind of sad, because while Scott seems like a nice guy, he's also totally off his rocker. He's a big guy, at least six feet tall, and although he's not exactly built like a football player, he's still got some serious muscle going on. If he was shown a picture of those three in a lineup and asked to pick out the security guard, Scott would be the only one Mike would even consider pointing at, shaggy ponytail and all. The warm smile and slightly too-happy demeanour also make him the most approachable person at the table, which is why Mike made the mistake of asking Scott the questions left over from the tour.

He is now ruing that decision.

“There's nothing to worry about,” Scott says for the fifth time in as many minutes. “The night watch at Freddy's is very peaceful. No one's been arrested on the premises in twelve years. But all the same, are you sure security is the right line of work for you, Mike? Is it okay if I call you Mike?”

Mike grits his teeth. “I already took the job. This is my first time working in the field, so I don't know how well suited I am to it, but I'm stuck with it for at least another two weeks. Might as well give it the old college try.”

Scott laughs. Jeremy doesn't. Fritz jabs the table with a mangled bendy straw, holding it like a switchblade.

“Okay, Mike. If you're sure.” 

“I'm sure.”

Scott's smile seems to dim a fraction. Despite himself, Mike feels a pang of guilt. A little one, easily ignored. He may be a smiley bastard, but it's clear that Scott doesn't want Mike here any more than Jeremy does. He's just subtler about it. A bit nicer, too; less like he doesn't want a new coworker and more like he's worried about Mike's continued health. Which is kind of nice, actually. Not a lot of people worry about Mike.

Here and now, though, it's not welcome at all. 

“So,” Mike prompts, “about the androids...”

Scott looks briefly startled before the grin reasserts its dominion of his face. 

“Right! The androids are the, uh, most magical part of Freddy's. As you can see,” he pauses to gesture at the stage on the far side of the dining hall, “they're life size and fully articulated. There's four of them at the moment – Chica, Foxy, Bonnie, and the man himself, Freddy Fazbear.”

The only one on stage right now is a tall brunet, dressed in some kind of sleeveless tailcoat that matches his hair. And by 'tall', Mike means 'giant' – the android is at least seven feet, head to toe. Its frame is surprisingly willowy, although not at lean as the bunny's. If walking into the rabbit was like walking into a wall, walking into this guy would probably be like walking into a freight train. Definitely something to be avoided. Aside from the height, though, Mike has to admit the android's design is pretty cute. Especially the animal bits. A pair of little bear ears sit just below a miniature top hat, and if Mike squints, he can spy a little puff of fur poking out through the slit in the tailcoat. Its eyes are luminescent blue, and its smile is the happiest expression Mike's seen all day. The most natural-looking, too.

He leans forward, watching the mascot bring its microphone closer to its mouth. “I take it that's Freddy?” 

Something genuine enters Scott's expression as the bear bursts into song. “Yup. He's the host and main entertainer. Lovely singing voice. Compatible with most radios, too, although he's scrupulous about editing out the swearwords. He's a pretty nice guy – most of the time, anyway – but it's a bad idea to bug him when he's on the job.”

“Ms. Sanchez told me not to draw attention to myself,” Mike says cautiously. 

Well, as cautiously as he can while still being heard over Freddy singing about pizza. The android does have a nice voice, smooth and rich, but his lyrics could use some work.

“Good advice. Follow that advice. As for the other androids... Chica's the, uh, chef, so she'll be in the kitchen most of the time. She comes out for special performances, though, in which she plays the tambourine. It's really cute.”

“She's the bird?”

Fritz snorts unpleasantly.

Scott hurries to speak over him. “There's been a debate over which kind of bird since day one, but yes, she is the bird. She's very yellow, a bit shorter than the others, and she has feathers everywhere. Hard to miss.”

Mike glances back at Freddy, swaying side to side on stage. “How much smaller?”

“About an inch shorter than I am. She's a bit more temperamental and persnickety than Freddy, but as long as you don't step on any toes or go near the kitchen, she'll stay away. And if you do have to go near the kitchen...” Scott's smile falters. He makes a quick gesture at the far side of the room. “Stay still, stay quiet, and for god's sake, don't touch anything.”

Mike's gaze lands on the kitchen door. It's tucked in the back, almost out of sight, but even this far away Mike can see the grooves carved deep into the metal frame. There are four of them. They look suspiciously like fingers.

“Got it,” he says, throat dry. “Anything else?”

“Next up is Foxy. He used to run the Pirate's Cove, but the Cove's been out of commission for a while.”

“And by 'a while,' he means 'eight years.'” Fritz tips his chair back, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. “It's no real loss. I got dumped here a lot as a kid, and the Cove was a piece of shit.”

“Your opinion has been noted,” Scott says with an awkward chuckle. “Now, Mike, you probably won't see a lot of Foxy, because he keeps irregular hours. He'll usually come in to help with the lunch rush, other than that, his schedule is pretty random. He has no set role, so it can be pretty hard to avoid him, but...”

Ooo, a leading question. What could the answer possibly be?

“Do so anyway?”

“Bingo!” Scott beams at him. “Also, don't go in the Cove. It's off limits for safety concerns.”

“Yup,” Fritz agrees, drawing out the word like taffy. “Safety concerns that are not at all related to the mechanical fox boy who spends his nights screaming and clawing at the walls in there. Not at all.”

“Right.” Mike gives Fritz a dry look. “Anything I should know about Bonnie before I run into him again?”

For some reason, those words make Jeremy, who's been studiously ignoring them all, flinch. The corner of Fritz's mouth turns up in a mirthless smirk. Scott laughs again, expressing far more nerves than humour.

Mike stares at them, resisting the urge to push his chair away from the crazy people. What's with that reaction? It's not like he was making a joke –

Oh. He groans, dropping his head.

“That wasn't supposed to be funny.”

Scott leans over the table and claps one big hand on Mike's shoulder. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't even sting.

“It's okay, Mike. I've been here the longest of all of us, and I have never seen Bonnie hunt anyone down for bumping into him. That said, you should, uh, not do that again.”

Mike grins despite himself. “I don't plan to.”

“Good.” 

Scott sits back, giving Fritz a nudge. Fritz rolls his eyes and elbows Jeremy, who goes stock still for a second. When he unfreezes, he turns his head to the side and resumes ignoring everyone. Scott nods, apparently satisfied, and goes back to the conversation as if nothing happened.

“Bonnie's a waiter and sometimes a greeter. He's our most punctual employee. First one to clock in, last one to clock out. Not much of a talker, but amiable enough. He's also the least likely to lose his temper if provoked, but that doesn't mean you should go out of your way to bug him.” Scott looks over Mike's shoulder and grimaced. “He tends to hold grudges. All of them do, but Bonnie's the worst. If you piss him off, he'll remember it for the rest of your life.”

Mike turns around to see a pair of purple bunny ears wading through the crowd, pulling away from the kitchen. Bonnie's back, a tray balanced in either hand. One is stacked high with pizza; the other had some kind of soup. Mike glances down at his clothes, eyes raking them over in a belated hunt for food scraps. When nothing turned up, he relaxes. 

Good thing he hadn't walked into the rabbit while it was carrying anything that could stain.

“So,” he says, smiling playfully, “how screwed am I for walking into him earlier?”

He was addressing Scott, but Fritz answers first. “Normally, I'd say you're fucked. But you helped him clean up.”

“So?” Mike prompts.

“So, congratulations,” Fritz says, eyeing his ragged fingernails. “Your little act of kindness seems to have defused things. But don't count on it lasting. You're not safe yet.”

A comment that's both cryptic and ominous. It must be Mike's birthday or something. He takes a moment to imagine heaving a sigh before turning to Scott.

“Thanks for your help. Could you show me where the uniforms are? I want to get changed before my shift.”

A sudden screech has Mike's heart trying to leap out of his chest. He jerks his head around to find Jeremy on his feet, chair on its side. The other guard reaches down and rights it, expression stony. Then he turns on his heel and walks out.

Mike opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“What the hell?”

The smile Scott gives him is rather half-hearted. “Sorry about that. Jeremy's not very good with people. We might have made him feel a bit nervous.”

Fritz rolls his eyes, twirling the straw between his fingers. “He's just pissed that giving you the cold shoulder wasn't enough to drive you off.”

So that's it. Mike's disgusted by how shaken he is. Still, as he watches Jeremy's back melt into the crowd – veering far away from the tables Bonnie's waiting – he can't shake the feeling that something is wrong with this impression. In the split-second before his expression shut down, Jeremy looked... odd. Like he was about to cry. Or laugh. Or be crushed by some invisible weight hovering over his head.

Mike has seen that expression before. Eight years ago, it was waiting for him in every mirror.

The words slip out before he's aware of it. “He looked like he was watching someone die.”

Scott chokes. Fritz drops his straw. And Jeremy goes through the door and disappears.


	2. Chapter 2

Fritz heads out soon after Jeremy leaves, tossing a dull “Good luck,” over his shoulder. Then it's just Mike and Scott at the table, making small talk and politely ignoring the fact that neither of their smiles reach their eyes. That said, it's far from unpleasant, although it's fairly obvious that Scott is avoiding shop talk like the plague. 

There's an initial round of apologies, of course – apparently, Jeremy only acts cold to try and scare off new hires. Fritz, on the other hand, is just a jerk. Fortunately, Mike is sharing his first night on the job with Scott, who proves to be just as nice as he seemed earlier. Definitely off his rocker, though. They end up talking about an old TV show that's recently gotten a reboot. The evening passes quickly. Mike notes when the crowd leaves, and when the day shift files out, but Scott makes no indication that he'd like to follow suit. Only when the clock reads 11:30 does he rise to his feet, stretching out his stiff limbs.

Mike does the same, sighing quietly. His legs are half asleep.

“Sorry for, uh, keeping you so long.” Scott gives him a sheepish grin. “We should get going before they switch to auxiliary power.”

“It's no trouble,” Mike says. “Thanks for helping me pass the time. The rest of the evening is probably going to be dull as dirt.”

Something changes in Scott's expression, but Mike can't quite put his finger on what. “Well, if you get bored, try listening to the tapes.”

“Tapes?” Mike asks, trying not to sound too interested.

“Yeah. Put 'em together in my spare time. They're, uh, instructional. Something like a survival guide for pulling the night shift at Freddy's.”

“Really? That sounds awesome, thanks.”

Scott laughs uncomfortably. “Good to hear. Anyways, I've got to get ready, but you should try listening to the tapes before your shift starts. Make sure you're prepared for any unfortunate possibilities.”

“Thanks,” Mike says again. “I'll do that right away.”

And he intends to, honest. But as soon as Scott's gone, it occurs to Mike that he's still in street clothes, and that really needs to change, no pun intended. Ms. Sanchez left his uniform by the table when she left, so he gathers it up and heads to the bathroom. It's a lot more complicated than the apron he wears at the convenience store, the dress shirt especially. The blue fabric keeps catching on the roughened skin of his hands. The pants are easier. It's hard to screw up putting on pants, even if they are stiff and starched and suspiciously expensive looking.

The real problem is the tie. Mike can count on one hand the number of times he's had to wear one of the glorified nooses. He doesn't think he's ever managed to tie one properly. This tie, a slim, black little number that feels unpleasantly tight around his neck, is no exception. He knots it as loosely as possible and leaves, cap in hand. 

This one doesn't have bear ears, so there's no real embarrassment factor in wearing it. He's just never been a hat person.

Scott's already gone when he gets back, so Mike wastes no time scampering off to his new office. All of his haste vanishes the moment he sets foot inside. If he thought the parking lot was bad...

It has electricity, at least, and a tablet-esque security monitor that looks like it cost more than everything else in the room put together. On each wall, there's a set of doors, the same kind that the manager's office has. Near them each is a pair of buttons, one for the floodlights and one to close the doors. Mike flips the lights on and off – and winds up stifling a snicker. His night vision's good enough that he won't need to bother with these. 

In the middle of the room, on top of a grungy, slightly sticky carpet, there's a desk and a chair, both mostly clean. The desk also has a fan on it – probably for the summer months – and, for some reason, a cupcake. A cautious poke reveals it to be made of plastic. Weird.

That taken care of, Mike plops himself down in his seat, turns on the monitor, and goes methodically through the cameras. West hall, fine. Dining hall, fine. Kitchen, on the fritz; audio's coming in clear, but the visuals are crap. Show stage, fine. Backstage –

The screen abruptly dissolves into static. 

What's going on? A mechanical failure? Mike's debating the virtues of percussive maintenance when the distortion ends as suddenly as it began. He rolls his eyes and resettles himself. Of course the security equipment would be as cheap and worn-out as the rest of the place. He's about to switch to the next camera when something catches his eye.

Wasn't the door closed a second ago?

He leans closer, squinting at the screen. Yeah, the door to the backroom is definitely open. And... is that a hand?

Yes, yes it is. Mike sits perfectly still, eyes glued to the monitor, as the purple rabbit mascot from before – Bonnie, Scott called him – steps outside. He tilts his head, glowing red eyes flicking back and forth, before letting go of the door. The camera, which picks up the sound of pipes groaning in the walls, is silent as he pads toward it. Mike swallows, throat suddenly dry, and leans away from the screen.

Okay, time to put those tapes on.

_“Hello, hello?”_ Scott's voice crackles out. 

He sounds young. Young and hesitant, his words soaked in thinly-veiled panic.

_“Uh, hi there. This is a message I recorded for future night guards, in hopes of helping them get settled in quickly on their first night. And, uh, hopefully making them a bit more prepared for Freddy's after dark. So, I know it can be a bit overwhelming, but I'm here to tell you there's nothing to worry about. Uh, you'll do fine. So, let's just focus on getting you through your first night. Okay?”_

Ice trickles down Mike's spine. If this tape was meant to be reassuring, it's backfired. Horribly.

_“Uh, let's see, first there's an introductory greeting from the company that I'm supposed to read. Uh, it's kind of a legal thing, you know. Um, 'Welcome to Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. A magical place for kids and grown-ups alike, where fantasy and fun come to life. Fazbear Entertainment is not responsible for damage to property or person. Upon discovering that damage or death has occurred, a missing person report will be filed within 90 days, or as soon property and premises have been thoroughly cleaned and bleached, and the carpets have been replaced.'”_

He spends a very tense hour listening to Scott explain the situation, periodically checking on the androids. Yes, plural, because a girl with a flouncy yellow dress, a bib with some sort of text on it, and clusters of yellow feathers poking out of her head, her wrists, and an actual V-shaped bird tail strolled out soon after the rabbit. Bonnie seems content to wander aimlessly through the halls, a serene expression on his bloodless face. Chica, though... she can't stay still. Dining hall. Show stage. Kitchen. Pirate's Cove, though she only lingers long enough to take a look at the curtain. Kitchen again.

Mike really hopes that's pizza she's eating.

_“So, just be aware, the mascots do tend to wander a bit. We can't really stop them. Uh, during the day they mostly stick to their assigned areas, but at night they like to stretch their legs. They'll probably end up all over the restaurant. No worries, they won't actually leave the building – I think there's some sort of security system they're hooked into. Or maybe a blood sacrifice won't let them off the grounds. Or hey, maybe they just like it here. That's possible.”_

Scott coughs into the recording. Mike nearly jumps out of his skin.

_“Anyways, they're the most loyal employees Freddy's has, so they'll take care of any necessary clean-up and deal with any intruders. Uh, now concerning your safety, the only real risk to you as a night watchman here, if any, is the fact that these mascots, uh, if they happen to see you after hours probably won't realize you're supposed to be there. And, uh, since dealing with trespassers is in their job descriptions, that might not turn out well for you. At all. D-don't ask me for details, please. All I know is that it'll probably be worse than the Bite. Now, the androids aren't actively malevolent – I think – and as long as you don't bug them, things should be all right. But, uh, all the same, if they look like they're heading toward the office... close the doors. Fast.”_

All that and the tape still isn't over. This man should be in politics. He definitely doesn't have a career in motivational speaking, though. Mike can feel his optimism draining away by the second. But Scott's admitted that he doesn't really know what's going on, and while Mike hasn't finished the handbook Ms. Sanchez gave him, he sincerely doubts the pizzeria could stay open with that kind of missing persons policy. With a sigh, he sets the monitor down and leans back in his seat, stretching. It looks like the androids are happy making their rounds. As long as they don't get too close, he should be –

Oh god Bonnie's in the doorway.

Mike screeches, lurches out of his seat, and shoves his fist into the button. The sound of the door slamming shut overwhelms the pain of hitting the ground. He lays there for a second, trying to get his breathing under control, before pushing himself off the floor.

“What the fuck just happened?” he whispers, staring blankly at the closed door.

There's no reply.

* * *

 

**“Well, that was unexpected.”**

**“Yeah. Fresh meat isn't usually vigilant enough to catch you.”**

**“More reason to ensure we nip this in the bud.”**

**“Agreed. Paranoia just makes things difficult for everyone.”**

**“Speaking of which, how are the others?”**

**“Foxy's in the cove, muttering to himself. Freddy and N are still in the back. The Marionette's in its box, more or less. The Toys are still down for maintenance, and I have no idea where Goldie is.”**

**“Mangle?”**

**“Vents. I think the balloon brats are in there, too, but I'm not going in to check.”**

**“And him?”**

**“...”**

**“It doesn't matter, I suppose. The night's far from over.”**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the cupcake and desk fan are given names, and Chica wanders the halls searching for an inanimate object.

Hauling himself to his feet is more difficult than Mike is willing to admit, even to himself. He takes it slow, using the desk to support his weight. The door is still closed. No matter how hard he strains his ears, he can't hear anything on the other side. Good night vision or not, it's awfully dark. Did he imagine it?

Only one way to find out. He reaches for the monitor with trembling hands.

A flick of his fingers, and the fragile hope building in his chest is snuffed out. Bonnie's standing outside the door, wearing the same serene expression as before. Red eyes pierce through the darkness, leaving faint distortions onscreen. Mike lowers the monitor, throat dry.

_“But hey,”_ Scott's voice says, tight with forced cheer, _“first day should be a breeze. I'll chat with you tomorrow.”_

A breeze. Right.

_“Check those cameras, and remember to close the doors only if absolutely necessary. Gotta conserve power. Alright, good night.”_

The voice falls silent. Mike waits, tension thrumming through his body, but Scott doesn't speak again. The tape is over.

He's alone.

Well, almost.

“Why are you still here?” he grumbles, staring at Bonnie's pixellated face. “Door's shut. Unless you can tear it off its hinges –”

Shutting up before he gives the android ideas.

Rabbit ears give a minute twitch before Bonnie turns on his heel, stalking back down the hall. Mike watches him go, not daring to blink. Just before Bonnie vanishes, he notices a splash of purple poking out from under his vest.

“The killer android has a purple cottontail.” The words sound utterly ridiculous when he says them out loud.

The rabbit's gone. He could try and sneak out of the office, but Chica's still out there, and he doesn't actually know where Bonnie went. If they catch him... Mike can't quite suppress a shudder. Yeah, he's gonna stay put for now. At least the office has doors he can close in their faces. Until the power runs out...

He shakes his head and checks the little battery indicator. 89% left. Not good, but there's only five hours until his shift ends. The androids have the whole restaurant to roam around in, and they haven't been bothering him much. As long as they're distracted, it should be – 

A flash of yellow. He freezes, staring wide-eyed at the window. Chica's standing just outside, peering in. There's a tiny smile on her face, but her violet eyes are boring holes in him. He looks away, looking to each side. Nothing there. Not yet. Mike shifts his gaze back to Chica, trying to calculate how far the window is from the doors. The answer is simple: not far enough.

He turns the monitor off. He can see where Chica is pretty easily, and as long as he checks the doors every few seconds, Bonnie shouldn't be able to sneak up on him. Nervewracking as this position is, it's probably one of the best ones he could be in. Even if it means he spends an uncomfortable amount of time staring at her.

This close, the black text on Chica's bib is legible: Let's Eat! There's stains on the white fabric, reddish-grey in the flickering light. It's probably tomato sauce. No, it's definitely tomato sauce. The little voice in the back of his head reminding him of the whole 'bodies going missing' thing needs to shut up.

Finally, after what seems forever, Chica moves. He's ready; the door slams shut just as she reaches it. She lurks outside for a bit before giving up and retreating back into the gloom. Mike settles down in his chair, wishing he'd brought a watch. Or a flashlight. Or body armour. Would that help? How strong are these things, anyway? Scott didn't mention their physical capabilities, but everything science fiction has taught him insists robots are supposed to be stronger than humans. The doors seem to be stopping them for now, but the memory of plate shards grinding against Bonnie's white fingers makes Mike shudder.

If he survives, he's going to grill the other night guards for all they've got.

Time passes. Chica returns to the kitchen, then the stage, then the dining room. Bonnie lurks in the west hall, apparently transfixed by the years' worth of kids' drawings tacked up there. Neither have made any sudden moves for the doors.

This should be reassuring, but...

Mike sighs. “If you're trying to lure me into a false sense of security, it's not going to work.”

No response, not that he was expecting one.

“I'm so serious, guys. If you've got stuff to do and you don't care about me anymore, fine. But if you want to –” The words catch in his throat. “– come get me or something, this is not going to make it easier. I'm just saying. I mean, I don't want you to go after me, but this whole waiting game is getting old. Especially you, Bonnie. You've been out there for what, two hours now? Those pictures can't be that interesting.”

Speaking of which. He picks up the monitor and checks the west hall, only to find another burst of static. It fades after a second, revealing Bonnie still standing in front of the drawings. His ears, however, are tilted toward the office.

That's not creepy in the slightest. Mike glances at the time – 3:34 AM – and sets the monitor back down, making a mental note to stop talking to the androids. He's definitely giving them ideas.

* * *

**“How's sentry duty going?”**

**“Well enough. He hasn't let down his guard yet. I could use some assistance.”**

**“I know, I know. It's just that I keep finding things left out here. The clean-up crew sucks.”**

**“That they do. But Chica, you've been prowling around for two hours and thirty-seven minutes. I sincerely doubt there's that many leftovers to put away. What's going on?”**

**“You'll laugh.”**

**“Chica, you have my word that I will not laugh at you.”**

**“Fine. I can't find Carl.”**

**“Your cupcake?”**

**“Yes. I left him somewhere in all the commotion and I can't remember where. I thought he might be in the kitchen, but I've checked.”**

**“I see. You've mentioned he likes to visit Fi, haven't you? Have you checked the security office?”**

**“I tried. But the window is tiny and gross and I couldn't see most of the desk. Fi's definitely there, though. I'll ask him after we get in.”**

**“Just remember not to touch the guard.”**

**“No worries, Bonnie. This one's all yours.”**


	4. Chapter 4

3:44. 3:45. 3:46.

The minutes tick away, leaving bright smears on his vision. Mike yawns and rubs his eyes. It's a mistake. He really shouldn't have gotten here so early. If he'd taken his time, he could've at least snuck a nap in there somewhere. Aunt Sharon would have prodded him awake, sure, but he's getting much better at hiding at from her. And if all else failed and she chased him out the door, the outside is full of places to sleep.

Park benches are surprisingly comfortable. The office at Freddy's... isn't.

The desk feels like it was carved from solid granite. The chair is so rickety it wobbles whenever he shifts his weight. The doors, which are still freaking open – and whose bright idea was that? Installing doors that only close when they're draining power? – let in an uncomfortable amount of pizza gas. Even if it wasn't for the androids, he wouldn't dare try and sleep. His dreams are weird enough without being saturated in the scent of cheese, tomato, and grease.

Or vivid images of being torn limb from limb by deranged robots. That would also be unwelcome.

3:48. 3:49. 3:50 –

Movement.

He lunges for the button. The right door slams shut just as Chica reaches it. He braces himself for the sound of scratching, clawing, screeching – hell, even squawking – but it doesn't come. She stands in silence, staring at the door, then turns and walks away. Even her footsteps are noiseless. It's unfair. If he had some way to hear them coming...

A blur of purple. Mike shuts the left door and glances at the monitor's power. 40%. That's not good. With great reluctance, he turns the screen off and places it in front of him, where he can keep an eye on it. That little device is his lifeline. If it goes dead, he'll be sitting blind. Fighting the androids isn't an option; they're all bigger and stronger than he is. Even the smallest, Chica, is pushing six feet. Besides, he remembers what it felt like to walk into Bonnie. If he runs out of power, hiding will be his only real option.

He scoots back and gives the underside of the desk a measuring look. Probably a bad idea. Whatever makes the androids inclined to leave the doors intact, it probably doesn't extend to furniture.

The doors open again. The hallways stretch out, one on either side. The flickering light above him isn't strong enough to light them up; no matter how much he strains, he can't see more than a metre into either. He gazes into the darkness anyways, resisting the urge to check the monitor.

That lasts for about ten minutes before even mortal peril isn't enough to keep his eyelids open. Mike's no stranger to sleepless nights, but he's been working overtime at his other job – the one without any overt threats to his life – and coming back later and later. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now he's kicking himself. If he had a working brain, he would have caught a nap earlier, but he assumed the screens would keep him awake. He also assumed that the people who worked at Freddy's weren't actively trying to kill their employees.

A chuckle blossoms in his throat before he squashes it. He assumed a lot of things coming into this job. If he survives to start a new one, he won't be making that mistake again.

Purple. He shuts the door in Bonnie's face and turns the monitor back on. For a long moment, the android stares blankly at the pitted metal. Then, slowly, his head begins tilting upward. Red bores into blue, making eye contact through the camera feed, and Mike forgets how to breathe. The world narrows until all he can see is red. Red like tomato sauce, red like old paint, red like –

There's a sound behind him. He spins in his seat and screams. 

Chica's in the doorway, one hand outstretched. Her claws – fucking claws – swipe out, level with his face. He's vaguely aware of knocking over his seat and tripping over himself in his haste to hit the button, but that doesn't seem important. Certainly not worth dwelling on when the doors are snapping shut on Chica's arm. She ignores it. Artificial skin ripples as she pushes her way through, metal squealing against her flesh.

The monitor fell with him, and is currently laying about a foot away from his hand. Onscreen, Bonnie leans forward and deliberately drags his fingers across the door. The screech they make stabs directly into the brain.

It's too much. The job, the invasion, the screeching. All Mike can do is cover his ears and whimper.

Chica stops moving, the doors struggling around her bicep, and sighs. Slowly, she steps back, freeing her arm bit by bit. Her bone-white fingers are the last to disappear, a split-second before the doors finally swing shut. Mostly. There's kind of a hole now, a rough circle of crumpled metal. Mike stares at it, then down at the monitor, where Bonnie appears to be shaking his head. As he watches, the android begins rubbing one of his long ears.

Mike has no idea what just happened, but he's still breathing. A quick cycle through the cameras shows that Chica's retreated to the dining hall, and Bonnie's following her. He lowers the screen and buries his head in his arms, trying in vain to muffle himself. The laughter, when it comes, is more than a little hysterical.

She let him go, either because breaking into the office is against some sort of killer android rule, or because the sound of her attempt on his life was hurting Bonnie's ears.

"I get it," he manages between bursts of cackling. "I'm dreaming. This whole thing is one demented nightmare. Oh god. I'm never going to sleep again."

It takes a while for the laughter to die down, but it happens. Full-on cackles become strained chuckles, which fade into snickers. By the time Mike can force himself to sit up straight again, it's stopped entirely save for the occasional sob. He feels awful. He can barely breathe. The doors are empty cut-outs, rectangles of pure black tacked onto the filthy walls. If the androids are still out there, they aren't anywhere nearby.

Were they ever there to begin with? Maybe not. Maybe he's finally cracked, just like Aunt Sharon always said he would. The idea is oddly comforting. No matter what happens here, it'll all be okay in the morning.

Who's he kidding? It's never okay. It's never been okay. It will never be okay.

He's going to die here.

There's a soft thump above him. Mike squeaks and dives under the desk. It takes him a few seconds to realize that he left the monitor on the floor, and longer to convince himself to actually look for it. It hasn't moved; from this angle, he can just see the top of the desk reflected on its black screen. The source of the sound is obvious. The fan has toppled over. All the paranoia in the world isn't enough to keep him from feeling stupid.

“Nice one, Mike,” he mumbles, crawling out of his hiding place. “That fan could have been the end of you.”

The fan lets out a menacing whir. Mike chokes down a giggle and reaches out to set it upright. It's heavier than it looks; he needs both hands to lift it. He manages to steady it after a brief struggle and frowns thoughtfully at the appliance. Aunt Sharon doesn't have a fan – something about them being too expensive, even though she keeps the AC blasting all summer – and his parents had an ancient floor fan, so his experience with them is limited. That said, he's still pretty sure fans are supposed to be lighter than that. Especially the small ones.

He'll look into it tomorrow, if he survives.

The monitor is still on the floor. It looks out of place against the grimy carpet, a little piece of sleek modern technology in a pile of rubbish. That metaphor could be extended to the whole office, minus Mike's desk buddies. Both fan and cupcake look brand new. Maybe they were brought in to make him feel more at home? How sweet. He stifles another giggle and picks the monitor up, turning it on to glance at the power bar.

34%. There's only an hour and a half to go before his shift ends. If he's careful, and lucky, he might live to see it.

Assuming that Scott was telling the truth when he said the androids would back off at six...

But there's no point in second guessing now. Scott was the only person who had the decency to warn Mike about this mess, in the form of those creepy but helpful tapes. That warning is probably the only reason Mike's still breathing. He remembers what Scott said about the restaurant's missing person's policy and digs his nails into his palms, pinpricks of pain blossoming into being. And that bit about bleaching the carpets? Being torn limb from limb by crazy robots sounds like a horrible way to go. Assuming that's what Scott was hinting at. 'Don't ask me for details' could encompass a lot of horrifying things.

What if they like to switch it up every once in a while? God knows Mike would get tired of doing the same thing over and over. In theory, he's all in favour of experimentation. He just really, really doesn't want to participate.

He forces his fists to unclench. Panicking will just get him killed sooner. Mike shuts his eyes and tries to clear his mind. It's a much slower process than usual. He keeps jumping at every noise. The door Chica tried to break in through is definitely broken, and the mechanisms whir periodically as they try and fail to fully retract. That's bad enough, but it's worse when the vents rustle. Thank god the office doesn't have ducts big enough to crawl through. He'd never make it through the night.

Not that he's doing that well as is. Every time he thinks he's getting somewhere on this meditation thing, the fucking door starts moving. Whir. Clank. Scree. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. It's infuriating, but Mike's too tired to really feel it. Even the terror he just felt has faded to a dull annoyance.

Maybe he should just let himself fall asleep. It might be the only chance he has for a peaceful death.

The moment that thought crosses his mind, Mike slaps himself sharply. The stinging sensation forces him awake. He blinks, eyes watering, and looks around. The halls are still empty. He lowers his gaze to the monitor and hesitates. Should he? He honestly has no idea how long he spent trying to calm down. It can't be six already. He should check on the androids.

But the power is running out, and the broken door can't be helping.

The screen is dark. The lights are still on, so there must be some power left. But how much?

He takes one more glance at the doors and turns the monitor on. 21% left. It's 5:04. He's been meditating for about half an hour.

How kind of the androids to wait until he's managed to calm his racing heart before they try to kill him again. It's the least they owe him for what they did to the fucking door.

Time crawls past at a pace that snails would laugh at. Once or twice, Mike catches a glimpse of yellow behind the window, but Chica doesn't press her luck. Bonnie is nowhere to be seen. Neither of the other androids Scott told him about have showed up, thank god. It's hard enough to deal with two of these things. Four... no. Just no.

The door is still trying to close. Must be the racket it's causing that's keeping Bonnie away. Mike wonders if he can enhance the sound somehow. Turn the volume up and send the purple rabbit from hell fleeing back to its room. Unfortunately, whoever stocked this office with fan, cupcake, and mold forgot to leave him a loudspeaker.

Plus, Chica's already proven herself to be capable of breaking into the office and protective of her... partner? Coworker? Fellow killer android? Mike really doesn't want to encourage her to try that again.

So he sits and waits, elbows on the desk, and tries not to jump out of his skin when the door makes another attempt at opening.

5:28. 5:29. 5:30. The minutes can't tick by fast enough.

* * *

**  
“I am sorry, you know.”**

**“My ears will mend. The door will not.”**

**“I know, I know. I'll hammer out the dents tomorrow.”**

**“Scratches.”**

**“And the scratches. Good news, though – I found Carl. He was hanging out on the desk with Fi. I should be able to pick him up before morning shift.”**

**“That's good.”**

**“Yup. Moving on to more urgent concerns... the new guy's pretty good, isn't he? Even if he seems to breaking now. ”**

**"He's gone quiet."**

**"Disappointed?"**

**"A little."**

**"Don't worry, Bonnie. I looked in on my way here. He's not broken yet."**

**"Really? I'll have to fix that."**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night 1: end.

At 5:31, a blur of yellow goes past the window, pausing just long enough for Mike to catch a glimpse. He goes for the button, then hesitates. The power is getting dangerously low. If she's just making another circuit...

Pink lights sear through the darkness as she stalks toward the door. Mike can't push the button fast enough.

There's a little gap in the metal where Chica tried to force her way in. He can't hear her approach, but he can see it. Her eyes are bright and her bib is glowing, stains and text stark against the white fabric. A shudder goes down his spine as the words 'Let's Eat' inch closer. 

She takes one final step and stops, standing silently in front of the door. Mike scoots his chair away, keeping his eyes on the patch of white. Chica screwed up when she broke the door; now he can see where she is without needing to check the monitor. That takes the number of homicidal androids whose location he doesn't know down to one.

Time to check on the hellbunny.

Nothing in the west hall. Nothing in the show stage. Nothing in the dining hall. No creepy sounds coming out of the kitchen, so Mike's just gonna assume there's nothing there, either. He keeps cycling through the cameras, searching for a flash of purple or a telltale red glow, but nothing jumps out at him. He should be uneasy, but all he can feel is relief. He doesn't have to face Bonnie just yet.

It's stupid, but he's actually more scared of the purple rabbit than the homicidal chicken. Chica's been trying to kill him all night, and she's even come close a few times, but the shock is dulled somewhat by the fact that Mike has never really seen her out of killer robot mode. Bonnie, though – he crashed into Bonnie just a few hours ago. He remembers porcelain scraping against pale fingers, seamless and unmarked. He wonders how easily those hands could tear him apart.

When he lowers the monitor, Chica is gone. On one hand, that means the doors can stop draining quite so much power. On the other, it means he now has no idea where either of them are.

There's 18% left on the power bar, and twenty-five minutes before his shift is over. For a long minute, he hesitates. Then the plaintive whirring of the door fills the air again, and he nearly dives under his desk for the second time. On the desk, the cupcake wobbles noisily. It sounds suspiciously like stifled laughter.

“Shut it,” Mike growls, hauling himself back into his seat. “You are a piece of inanimate plastic and I don't have to take shit from you.”

The noise stops. He's chalking that one up as a win.

Thankfully, the monitor didn't take a tumble this time. Mike's not sure if blunt trauma affects battery life, but he has no desire to find out. Percussive maintenance certainly isn't working out well for the door. He gives the screen a longing glance, then sits on his hands. The doorways are still empty. He can hold off on checking the cameras for a little while.

Five minutes later, he's flicking through the rooms, desperately searching for a trace of yellow or purple. Nothing in the halls. Nothing on the stage. Nothing in the cove. He pauses on the kitchen cam and listens for several seconds, but he can't hear anything.

Where the hell are they?

The door whirs, making another vain attempt at retracting. Mike gives it a baleful glare and sets the monitor down. Then he realizes he forgot to check the time and turns it back on.

It's been longer than he thought; only five minutes left in his shift. Battery is at 10%. And the androids are still nowhere to be found. For several seconds, he just stares at the screen, unable to comprehend what it's telling him. A disbelieving smile spreads across his face. He's actually going to make it.

Wait. Mike narrows his eyes, bringing the monitor closer to his face. Something's wrong with the display. It takes him a few seconds to place it. When he does, he freezes.

The glare, courtesy of the sputtering lightbulb dying by inches above his head, is gone. In its place is a huge, distorted silhouette. The lighting's too bad to make out much, but the purplish tint is unmistakable.

Never mind, he thinks, an odd calm settling over him. It looks like they caught him after all. Mike watches Bonnie watch him, idly wondering how much death by hellbunny is going to hurt. A lot, probably – Scott's description wasn't exactly explicit, but the whole 'bleach the office before calling the police' thing is pretty telling. Still, maybe he'll get lucky. Maybe Bonnie will break his neck first and he won't have to feel himself being torn apart. Or skinned. Or eaten.

The seconds tick by. Bonnie doesn't move, seemingly content to loom over Mike's shoulder. Strange. He kind of thought Bonnie would have made a move by now. It's not like there's anything Mike can do to stop him. The android is already inside the office; closing the doors would be pointless. Besides, that would require him to put down the monitor, and Mike's not entirely sure he can get his fingers to release their deathgrip on the plastic. Part of him – the part that's not good with priorities – hopes the device doesn't get damaged during his gruesome demise.

It is a really nice piece of equipment. Even if it wasn't enough to save him.

Bonnie isn't entirely silent. This close, Mike can tell the android isn't breathing, but there's a faint hum coming from that inhuman frame. It sounds almost like a cat purring, but quieter. Smoother. Artificial.

An internal motor? A side effect of whatever keeps Bonnie functioning? A very, very quiet threat? Mike has no clue, and he's not going to get a chance to find out. Damn it, he shouldn't be thinking about this. But it's been almost two minutes since Bonnie got into the office, and terror is being slowly replaced by a combination of numb acceptance and annoyance. He's got a literal killing machine standing at his back, so why is he still breathing? Is the hellbunny waiting for him to keel over from fright or something?

What the fuck, Bonnie. What the actual fuck.

Finally, the android moves, lowering his head until a red glow reflects off the screen. The searing light forces Mike to squint, but he refuses to close his eyes. He can't make out Bonnie's expression, but he suspects that it's confused. Or amused.

If Bonnie wants Mike to acknowledge his presence, he'd better be prepared to actually do something. 'Cause so far, all he's done is loom threateningly, and that got old after the initial heart-stopping realization. Mike's not a horror movie heroine, screaming at the drop of a hat. If the hellbunny wants a reaction, he's gonna have to earn it.

As if on cue, Bonnie moves out of frame. His steps make no sound, and the soft humming is quickly drowned out by the fan. Mike strains his ears, but he can't tell where Bonnie is. Is he still in the office? Did he leave? If it turns out that the key to surviving death by hellbunny is just to ignore him until he goes away, Mike is going to be so –

A shadow falls over him. He doesn't jump out of his seat this time, but it's a close thing. Mike sits rigidly in his chair, nose inches away from the monitor, and tries to ignore the figure on the other side of the desk.

It's not going so well. Bonnie's looming is a lot more effective now. When you've got your back to something, you're vulnerable, but it's easier to pretend otherwise. When something's right in front of you, though... it's a lot harder to ignore.

The shadow inches forward. Mike keeps his eyes trained on the screen, trying not to shrink back into his seat. Running won't do any good, even if Bonnie's no longer between him and the door. He's seen these things move. Even when they're not trying, they're too fast to outrun. His vision's too blurred to make out the time or the battery life, and the screen won't stop shaking. He keeps his eyes glued to it anyway, right up until a bone-white hand rises towards him.

Mike flinches away, raising the monitor in a desperate attempt to protect his face. Bonnie goes for his wrist instead. He tries to fight; the android's grip goes from tight to agonizing. His fingers spasm, and he lets go of the monitor to claw at Bonnie's arm. His nails slide off the fabric like water. A strangled scream bursts from his throat as Bonnie drags him up onto the desk. 

Up close, Bonnie's eyes aren't calm at all. They're roiling with a sea of emotion. Glee. Victory. Anticipation. Mike glares back, angry tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. He should say something brave, or defiant, or witty, but he can't think of anything. It hurts too much.

This is not how he wanted to die.

He takes a shuddering breath and tries to relax as the android's other hand closes around his throat. It hurts less if you don't fight. Bonnie leans over him, bloodless lips curved upward. It's the most beautiful smile Mike's ever seen.

The hand on his neck tightens.

A second later, the office is full of the chiming of bells.

 

* * *

**"Shift's over already? Wow, time got away from us. You done, Bonnie? ... Bonnie?"**


	6. Chapter 6

The pattern the bells ring in is the same one they used in high school to let you know it was okay to vacate the building. To some, that sound means freedom; to Mike, it's always heralded a rush of despair. Now, on top of being terrified, in pain, and furious at himself, he feels guilty. If he had the breath, he'd laugh at the irony of it all.

It takes him a few seconds to realize that Bonnie isn't moving. The android's hands are still on him, agonizingly tight, but they aren't getting any tighter. Above him, Bonnie's face is still, expressionless. No trace of that smile remains.

Mike scowls despite himself.

“What's... wrong?” he rasps.

For a long moment, Bonnie stares down at him, motionless. Then the android's red eyes slide shut. There's a sudden chill as the hand around his throat disappears, and suddenly there's air rushing into his lungs. Mike sucks in a gulp of air and immediately curls onto his side, coughing madly. By the time he can breathe again, his hand is free, too, and Bonnie isn't looming over him anymore. He rolls over so he can see the side of the room with the doors, but the hellbunny is gone. He's alone in the office.

“What the fuck,” he says, and winces.

He sounds awful. His entire body hurts. He hasn't slept since four PM yesterday.

He's alive.

“What the fuck,” he says again, a smile tugging at his lips.

It hurts – split lip, probably – but it's a tiny little twinge that isn't worth acknowledging. There's a fizzy lightness in his stomach. He giggles, and the sound is equal parts joy, hysteria, and sheer flummoxed disbelief. That hurts too, but he shoves the sensation to the back of his mind and focuses on the whole 'not about to die' aspect of this situation. It's pretty awesome, all things considered.

He stares up at the flickering yellow lightbulb and laughs. Cataloging his bruises can wait.

* * *

Mike's been laying on the desk for long enough that his muscles are starting to cramp up, so his first response to the noise is somewhat lackluster. He turns his head towards the door – the broken one, which stopped trying to shut itself at some point when he wasn't paying attention – and blinks at it stupidly. Sleep deprivation is not kind to neurons, and he's still coming down from the whole 'not gonna die' high. The most complex thought he can muster is 'huh'?

The sound repeats itself: a soft thump, a shuffle, and then a pause. Less than a second later, there's another. Thump, shuffle, pause, repeat. That pattern seems like it should be familiar, but Mike's got no idea why.

He tries to sit up and immediately has to lie back down. Oh god, everything hurts. Even his fingernails feel bruised. But the sound is getting louder – closer – and if there's one thing this awful night has taught him, it's that when something comes near, he needs to move. He's got his arms under him and is in the process of levering himself upright when the sound reaches the door.

The broken machinery chooses then to try and haul itself open again. Mike's pretty much immune to the unexpected whir by now, but the stream of started curses from just outside catches him off guard.

“Who's there?” he croaks, craning his neck so he can see the door in question.

There's a moment of shocked silence, minus the whirring, before he gets a response.

“Fucking hell, you're alive in there?”

The voice is familiar. Mike stares blankly at the hole, trying to place the mess of uneven black spikes he can just make out through it.

“Frank?” he guesses at last.

“Fritz. Congratulations on getting two letters right, new guy. What the fuck did you do to this thing?”

Mike giggles. “I didn't do anything.”

“Bullshit,” Fritz counters, wisps of hair bobbing up and down as he grapples with the door.

“Really. Chica did it.”

There's a muffled sound that might be a snort. “Blaming the androids for property damage on your first night? No wonder you survived. You're gonna go far, kid.”

“I'm not making it up,” Mike grumbles.

“Sure you're not,” Fritz says agreeably. “Hold on, I'm gonna try something.”

It's not a request, but then, Mike doesn't really have a choice. He lowers himself back down and waits. The sounds of Fritz rummaging through a bag, swearing colourfully as he discards items, are strangely reassuring. Mike's eyes are about to slide closed when the rustling stops.

“Ha. Nice try.” Someone less – reserved? Deadpan? Mike's too tired for this – would be crowing. Fritz manages to pack the same amount of smug victory into a fraction of the expressiveness. “Hey, new guy, you near the door?”

“No.”

“Good. Stay away. This shouldn't take long, but it might get a bit tricky.”

Tricky? Mike lifts his head again, eyeing the door warily. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

The answer comes in the form of an ear-piercing squeal. Mike covers his ears as best he can, but it's no use; the sound goes straight through his hands.

“What are you doing?”

He can barely hear himself yelling over the noise, but he can hear the grin in Fritz's voice.

“Opening the door."

Mike curls into a miserable ball and, for a solid five seconds, wishes the robotic hellbunny was here instead. His wrist is throbbing where Bonnie grabbed it, and his throat still feels awful, but at least Bonnie only tried to kill him. 

As it turns out, Fritz's idea of 'shouldn't take long' and Mike's do not have a lot of overlap. The monitor finally dies a few seconds into the barrage of noise, so Mike isn't sure how long he spends with a hand clamped over one ear and his shoulder up against the other. It feels agonizingly drawn-out. Almost as much as the sickening minutes he spent staring into the monitor screen, watching a red-eyed reflection lurk over his shoulder.

Almost.

Finally, something gives way with a sickening screech, and the noise stops. A second later, he hears a very familiar thump. And another. And more where that came from. Mike lowers his hand and looks up, blinking stupidly.

“Are you kicking the door?”

One more thump, and the door shudders into motion, wheeling itself back into the walls. Behind it, searing pain awaits in the form of the hallways lights. Mike squints and catches a glimpse of a tall, thin shadow. He squeezes his eyes shut and scrambles away from the door, trying to make himself smaller.

Oh god, Bonnie's back, he just got away –

“Mission accomplished. No thanks necessary.”

It takes several seconds for the words to register in Mike's fevered brain. He sits up slowly, prying his fingers from the edge of the desk one by one.

“You,” he says, soft and deliberate, “nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Fritz snorts. It's a tiny gesture, lazily handed out like bad Halloween candy. Mike's eyes burn. He brings up the arm that Bonnie didn't crush and rubs them before they can tear up. Then, while his hand is still providing nice, protective shade, he opens his eyes.

Bonnie and Fritz don't actually look much alike. Yesterday, if Mike had had a choice of which he'd rather meet in a dark alley, he would have answered 'Bonnie' without hesitation. But that was then, this is now, and Fritz's perma-scowl and half-shaved head aren't evoking anything but relief. Mike's eyes skate over the shiny vinyl jacket and vast collection of piercings, drinking in every detail. It's the first time he's seen another person in almost seven hours.

Fritz shifts his weight, the chains latched to his belt jangling softly. “Like what you see?”

Mike glares at him. Then he notices another metallic glint held loosely in Fritz's hand.

Is that?

It is.

“A crowbar.” Mike shakes his head, the skin on his neck stretching uncomfortably. “You pried it open with a crowbar. How?”

Fritz shrugs, hefting the item in question over his shoulder. “Worked, didn't it? That's what matters. Now get your ass off the desk.”

Mike shakes his head again, massaging his aching temples with the hand that doesn't feel like it's on fire. He wants to scream and demand to know what the fuck is going on. He wants to ask if Fritz usually carries around a crowbar or if tonight was a special occasion. He wants to slide under the desk, curl up in a ball, and cry.

Fritz's gaze softens from ice to iron. Still hard, still sharp, but a little less cold. He sighs and pads into the room, soundless as a cat. The comparison makes Mike flinch; he really hopes there aren't any cat androids. He's already never going to be able to look at rabbits or chickens the same way ever again.

“Look,” Fritz says, “I know this has been the worst night of your life. But you need to get up, get your feet on the floor, and follow me. We'll get you calmed down, debrief you, and then you can meet with Pam and give her your two weeks. Shit, I'll carry you if I have to. We just need to get out of here.”

Mike glances away, eyes darting across the office. In the morning light, it looks like even more of a dilapidated wreck. The carpet is slathered in so much grease it's nearly translucent; all the colour comes from mould. The desk is covered in stains that weren't visible with such poor lighting. A few of those stains have a disconcertingly reddish colour. Mike deliberately turns his back to them and begins easing himself back down.

The moment his feet touch the ground, a wave of dizziness washes over him. He stumbles, grabbing onto the side of the desk to steady himself. There's a soft thunk as something falls off. Mike starts to turn his head. His neck protests viciously. His wrist, not to be outdone, begins throbbing viciously. Mike freezes, a low groan slipping from between his clenched teeth.

He's fine. His knees aren't shaking. He's not covered in aches and pains and rapidly-forming bruises. He's not going to fall apart the moment he lets go of his death grip on the furniture.

He's fine.

A soft huff. He can't tell where it's coming from, but a second later, a pair of hands settle on his shoulders.

“Hey, listen to me,” Fritz says. His voice is an anchor that Mike latches onto with all his might. “You're okay now. You made it through.”

The lump in Mike's throat keeps him from replying. He settles for nodding instead.

Whatever he was going to say, it was probably stupid, anyways.

* * *

**“You're late.”**

**“...hello, Freddy.”**

**“I should be mad, you know. But I'm not. I'm... concerned.”**

**“You shouldn't be.”**

**“You haven't been late for a shift since... not for a very long time.”**

**“Twelve years isn't a long time.”**

**“What happened, Bonnie?”**

**“...”**


	7. Chapter 7

_"Okay, what's wrong?"_

**"Wrong? What are you talking about, Carl? Nothing's wrong! Everything's great at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza!"**

_"Really? You're actually trying to pull this shit on me? Did you really think that would work?"_

**"...no. But it was worth a shot."**

_"Come on, girl. Tell me what's wrong."_

**"We messed up. We spent too much time screwing around, and lost our chance to get rid of him."**

_"You're still playing this game?"_

**"It's not a game to us."**

_"Well, even if you lost this time, there's no reason you can't win tomorrow. I was front and centre for the whole thing, and let me tell you, there's no way that guy's gonna last another night. Tomorrow morning, he'll be another stain on the wall."_

**"Ahahaha! You always know how to make me feel better."**

* * *

The moment Mike gets his breathing under control and his legs mostly steady, Fritz tugs him to his feet. Gloved hands twitch towards Mike's, pause, and fall back to Fritz's sides. A quick glance at his fingers and Mike understands why. One of his hands is all scraped up, spots of pooling red marking the places that'll be bruised in the morning. He's not sure if the fingers are working right. Are they actually a second slow to react, or is he just too tired to tell the difference? The other hand – the one that wasn't half-crushed in Bonnie's grip – is worse.

When Mike was seven, his sister slammed a car door on her finger. The whole thing turned purple, and it couldn't do more than twitch weakly. The day after, it swelled up until it looked more like a sausage than an actual digit.

His hand doesn't look that bad, but it doesn't look much better, either. At least there's no swelling yet.

Fritz is talking, a constant stream of soothing deadpan noise.

“-I guess congratulations are in order. So congrats, you survived your first night at the shittiest job ever.”

“Yay,” Mike says.

Fritz snickers. “Well, aren't we just overflowing with excitement. Try to control yourself, kid.”

“My name is Mike.” The forcefulness in his tone is undercut by a sudden yawn. “Oh my god. I almost died fifteen times, why am I so tired?”

“Adrenaline's wearing off.” Fritz makes another aborted grab for his arm. “Come on, we need to get to the break room before you crash.”

Mike didn't know this place had a break room. He's too busy trying to swallow another yawn to ask about it, though, and Fritz seizes the chance to lead him through the propped-open door and into the hall. The other door, Mike notes, is closed – the power must have been reconnected.

The lights in the hall are on, which really should have told him the same thing. His brain is sluggish, like molasses, but his thoughts are buzzing around the inside of his skull much too fast. It's confusing and disorienting and he doesn't like it.

At least his brain-mouth filters are still working. His internal monologue sounds like a whiny two year old.

A sudden burst of noise sends him screeching to a stop. He freezes midstep, eyes darting around helplessly. Oh god, Bonnie came back, he's dead after all –

A hand settles firmly on his shoulder. He almost jumps out of his skin before he realizes it's too small to be an android's.

“It's over,” Fritz says.

Despite everything, the certainty in his voice is calming. The barrage of noise continues; this time, Mike is able to separate it into different sounds. Voices. Footsteps. The clanging of kitchen implements, some of which he recognizes by individual clangs and some of which sounds utterly alien. Someone, he realizes, is singing. The pizzeria is coming to life around them. The androids are nowhere to be seen.

It's over. It's really over.

Fritz clears his throat, and when that fails to elicit a reaction, gives Mike a push. It takes him a bit to get his legs working again, but Mike finds himself trailing after Fritz like a duckling. Isn't that a lovely image: Fritz stalking down the hall in his leather and vinyl and shaggy punk haircut, eyes straight ahead, while Mike stumbles in his wake, wearing a uniform that's both stiff and too big for him. He belatedly notes that he's lost his hat. When did that happen? Hopefully Ms. Sanchez won't make him pay to replace it.

Mike's breathing quickens. Ms. Sanchez sent him to die here.

“Not now,” Fritz says, cool and calm and a lot of other 'c' words that Mike is not feeling at all. “We're almost there.”

Mike risks a glance ahead and blinks dumbly at the door they're approaching. “This is – the backroom?”

“Only at night. During the day, it's the break room. We have sort of a time-share thing going on.”

“How can you have a time-share thing with killer androids?”

If he weren't moving – and if his fingers weren't starting to feel like moving would cause them to break off – he'd facepalm.

Fritz turns his head just enough to give Mike a crooked grin. “Whatever kind of game they're playing, it's got rules. Number one is 'no doing anything threatening during the hours of operation' – i.e., daylight.”

That seems convenient. Mike says as much.

Fritz laughs as they come to a halt outside the door. “It does, doesn't it? But I'm not complaining. I like being alive more than I like the world to make sense.”

Mike gives him a piercing look. “You work here, don't you?” he rasps. “As a night guard. You've been through nights like this? More than once? Willingly?”

Fritz smirks and raps on the door. “I'm not that attached to being alive, either.”

It opens without a sound, skimming the linoleum and forcing Fritz to jerk back or be whacked in the nose. A tall man with shaggy brown hair peeks out, hard eyes jumping around the hall in a practiced manner. He's focused, tense, and utterly silent. It's so different from last night that Mike takes a few seconds to recognize him as Scott Callahan, the guy who answered his questions. The guy who left the tapes.

The guy who, judging by the speed at which he's casing the hallway, has been doing this job for a while.

Mike's pissed and tired, and also reluctantly impressed. He thought he was paranoid, but Scott puts him to shame. Aunt Sharon would never be able to able to sneak up on him. The tension singing through his huge frame, the ease of his stance, and the shift of hard muscle under his sweater would probably be more efficient deterrents, though. Aunt Sharon is good at sensing weakness. Scott doesn't look weak. He looks like a cat preparing to pounce.

The door opens a little wider. It's an invitation. Mike takes it. He stumbles forward, new aches blossoming into existence with every second, and ducks under Scott's arm. Fritz follows. The door slides noiselessly shut behind them.

The backroom is pretty barren. There's a row of counters along the far wall, a coffee machine and a waffle iron sitting on top, and a water cooler chugging away beside them. The wallpaper is old enough for the colour to be more yellow than white, but not old enough to have really started peeling. The floor is wood, scuffed and covered in scratches, but still solid enough. The scent of pizza is less overpowering here, and underneath it Mike can smell something faint and sickly. Probably mold.

On the other side of the room, closer to the door, there's a long metal bench. Mike heads straight for it.

Sitting down without jarring anything would be a long and painful process. He doesn't bother trying. Ripping a bandage off is easier than peeling it, although it does to result in more little agonized noises.

“Are you all right?” someone asks.

It takes him a second to place the voice. His hackles shoot up immediately.

Jeremy Fitzgerald. The asshole blond from yesterday.

“I'm fine,” Mike bites out.

So what if it hurts to breathe too deep? He's still alive, wasn't he? A little pain is nothing. As long as he focuses on keeping his breathing nice and shallow, he's just fine.

Just. Fine.

“You look like shit,” Fritz says, settling down beside him.

Mike lifts his head just enough to glare at him. Fritz doesn't even pretend to be intimidated, the fucker.

“Language,” Jeremy says absently. “Good lord, what happened to you?”

Mike grits his teeth. “Freddy Fazbear's happened.”

Fritz makes a noise that might, given care and attention, blossom into a chuckle. On Mike's other side, there's a soft intake of breath. Mike doesn't have the energy to turn and look. He lets his drop again, staring blankly at his hands. That lasts for about half a second before another sound catches his attention: the thud of a deadbolt sliding into place.

He looks up.

There is indeed a deadbolt. It's one of about twenty locks fastened on the inside of the door, all of which look much newer and better maintained than the rest of the building. Combination, deadbolt, key – even a few keypads and what looks suspiciously like a fingerprint scanner. At least, it looks like what they have in the movies. Mike's never seen a real one before, assuming it is what he thinks it is. Standing about three inches away from the door, scrutinizing the locks, is Scott. He looks them over with the careful eye of a soldier, stepping back only when each has been thoroughly examined.

Scott nods once, apparently satisfied, and spins around on his heel, neutral expression replaced by a blinding grin.

“You survived the night! Congratulations!”

Mike stares blankly at him.

“Hey, don't look at me like that,” Scott says. The admonishment in his voice is slightly diluted by the fact that he's still smiling like an idiot. “It's quite the achievement and you know it. Or did you get those bruises from walking into walls?”

Mike shrinks back, away from that too-bright stare.

“What the hell just happened?” he whispers, cradling his beaten hand. “What is this place?”

“It's Freddy Fazbear's, just like it says on the sign.”

“I didn't ask for a name,” Mike snarls. “What is this place? How could this be allowed to happen? I almost died last night. Why?”

The smile fades. “I wish I could tell you.”

That is profoundly unhelpful.

“What can you tell me?”

Scott hums, eyes narrowing in thought. “Not a lot, but enough that I'm gonna need some more specific questions. Unless you just want me to start from the beginning. Do you want me to –”

Mike is used to being the polite one. The quiet one. The one who lets other people talk over him because it's easier to work around them than it is to fight them.

Mike has just had the night from hell, and the morning isn't looking much better.

“I don't care where you start from,” he snaps, glaring until Scott's mouth snaps shut. “Just explain.”

Fritz whistles, a shrill, drawn-out sound that slices directly into Mike's eardrums. “Not one to beat around the bush, are you?”

“I almost died last night,” Mike repeats. “I'm not in the mood to be nice right now.”

“That was an observation, not a criticism.”

Fritz nods at Scott and leans back, lacing his hands behind his head. He looks so comfortable it's offensive.

Scott returns the nod and takes control of the conversation again.

“During daylight hours, this is usually a pretty normal pizzeria. There's the mascots, of course, but like our website says, they're not that high tech. They can't say anything but pre-recorded sound bites, they have a tendency to damage themselves by accident, and they occasionally walk into people.” He pauses to wink at Mike. “In short, they're big and a bit spooky – especially those eyes, they can light up a whole room sometimes – but they're harmless. Completely. As long as you're under the age of fourteen and it's still bright outside, anyways.”

Mike blinks. “Website?”

A low, quiet voice pipes up from his other side. “Didn't you do your research before applying?”

Oh, this asshole again.

“No,” Mike says, “I didn't have time.”

“Didn't have time?” Jeremy echoes, a thread of incredulity working its way into his tone. “How can you not have time to look up a place you wish to work at?”

Mike wheels around and glares at him. “Forgive me for not reaching your minimum standards of competency, Fitzgerald, but I –”

He stops.

Fritz and Scott are in casual clothes, but Jeremy is wearing the uniform. The cap, with its hilarious little bear ears, is clenched in trembling hands. He looks paler than he did in the morning, thanks to the darkness under his eyes. Mike can't see any scrapes or bruises on him, but half of Jeremy's nails are bloody. Bitten to the quick.

Jeremy meets Mike's eyes, flinches, and looks away. That cap must be made of something really sturdy, or it would be in shreds by now.

“Please forgive Jeremy,” Scott says, the words loud in Mike's ears. “He's not great at interpersonal interactions at the best of times, and this really isn't one of them. He was up all night with the androids, too.” 

Well, shit, there goes Mike's excuse to be an asshole. He squeezes his eyes shut, stomping ruthlessly on the scream building in his chest. When he speaks, it's quiet. Level. Almost calm.

“Why?”

“There're two offices.” Vinyl squeaks as Fritz shifts positions. “One on either side of the building. 'To keep watch over all possible exits.' So says the employee handbook, anyway.”  
It's amazing. Mike can actually hear the quotation marks floating around that sentence. He can also hear the thump and a pained little hiss as Scott steps firmly on Fritz's foot.

“The decision to have two night guards on duty at all times wasn't an easy one, especially given our limited staff. But it has had a positive effect on casualty rates,” Scott adds.

“I meant, why him? I thought you were supposed to be on duty tonight.” Mike opens his eyes, taking in the senior night guard's slightly desperate smile. “Why does this job even have casualty rates?”

Scott sighs, his smile easing into something more genuine and much less happy. “He, uh, asked to switch with me while you were changing. He was, ah, very insistent. Wanted to try and take some of the heat off you, but the Mangle and the balloon kids got him pinned down all night. Your other question is one of the tough ones. I don't know everything about this place, but I can definitely tell you what I do know. But first, I think some apologies are in order.”

Mike blinks at him. “I'm sorry?”

“Don't say it to me.” Scott points to Jeremy, who's doing his best to look anywhere else. “He's a real idiot sometimes and he's awful at dealing with strangers, but he did have your best interests at heart when he tried to scare you off. Besides, from what I can tell, you two have quite a bit in common. You might not end up BFFsies, but it'd be awfully sad if you never gave each other a chance.”

The words make sense. When strung together... they still make sense. No matter how many times Mike tries to find the catch, Scott's suggestion is perfectly reasonable; holding grudges in a workplace full of killer robots seems like a terrible idea. Which means it's just Mike's pettiness that makes him want to stamp his feet and scream 'he started it!' instead.

Mike takes a deep breath, counts to six, and releases it. So his first impression of Jeremy was bad. That doesn't change the fact that both of them were working last night. Just two guys with awful, awful judgement, being harried by the smiliest evil chicken ever and the purple bunny of death and despair. 

He hasn't had a tantrum in seven years. He's not going to start now.

“I'm sorry,” he says. There's a rustle of motion as Jeremy turns, a flash of green eyes behind matted bangs. “I shouldn't be jumping down your throat. It's late, I'm tired, I almost died so many times I lost count – but those aren't excuses to be rude. Besides, I sort of get why you would want to scare me away.”

Mike can't quite stop the tight grin from crawling onto his face. He draws the line at giggling, though. He's already filled his quota of hysterical laughter for tonight. The next fifteen years, too.

A sharp crack sounds out. Mike jerks his head toward it, heart trying to leap out of his chest.

Scott gives them all another too-happy smile and keeps clapping. “Very good. Now you.”

Jeremy clears his throat. Mike grits his teeth, anticipating more barbed words.

Instead, Jeremy ducks his head.

“I'm sorry. I tried to scare you off. So you would leave.” He gulps, eyes wet and shining. “You didn't leave. I thought you were going to die. I'm so sorry I couldn't be clearer. I'm so glad you're alive.”

This is unexpected, to say the least. Mike coughs and looks down.

“It's... it's all right.” It's not, but Mike can pretend otherwise until his feelings stop being whiny little bitches. If his poor brutalized fingers don't get vengeance, neither do they. “Like I said, I understand. Though why you couldn't just say 'don't work here, the androids will kill you...'”

“It's against the rules,” Fritz says.

Holy crap. While Mike was distracted, Fritz somehow managed to wedge himself between the bench and the wall, leaving him folded almost in half. There's a cellphone in his hands. He's on level 200 of Candy Crush. Mike is both impressed and horrified.

“Do you even have bones?” He regrets it as soon as he says it, but it's too late. “Oh my god, what happened to my brain-mouth filter.”

“To quote an asshole, Freddy Fazbear's happened.” Fritz taps the screen, causing the display to light up in a barrage of sparkly explosions. “And no. I am made of rubber.”

Mike's too tired to be offended. He turns back to Scott and Jeremy.

“No, seriously, why didn't you just tell me?”

Scott chuckles uncomfortably. “Fritz is right. We're not allowed to just come out and say it. Not to non-employees on company property, anyway.”

Mike stares at him. This has to be a joke. It's got to be. But barring Scott's nervous laughter, nobody seems to be finding it funny.

“Why?” he asks finally.

Jeremy squirms in his seat. “I always assumed the men in black would swoop down on us.”

“Pff, loser. It's gotta be at least a death curse. No way they could keep this shit hidden without some ugly magic.”

“Magic isn't real.” Jeremy glowers in Fritz's direction.

His eyes are still wet.

“Oh, sure, because the androids are one hundred percent comprehensible, explainable, and reproducible with modern science. It's not like they've been functioning for like eighty years with barely any maintenance, can adjust to changing technology without batting an eye, and can hide in air vents despite each weighing over 300 pounds.” Fritz snorts. “Those things are bending the laws of physics backwards over a table just by existing.”

Jeremy crosses his arms, fuming. “Language.”

It sounds like a very familiar argument; the sort where both participants have the lines memorized. Despite his tone, Jeremy is relaxing, and Fritz is getting the tiniest hint of a smirk. Mike wouldn't be surprised if this was part of their usual routine: go to work, struggle for survival, fight with each other. They probably won't take kindly to an interruption.

They'll just have to deal with it.

“Why on earth haven't you told anyone?” Mike demands. “This has to be ten kinds of illegal.”

The argument continues, but Scott... crumples.

“I tried. Do you know how long I've been working here?”

Mike shakes his head, mute.

“Twenty years. Ten under the previous management, ten under the new guys. I remember when the androids really were harmless. I remember when they stopped being so. I did everything I could think of. Mechanics couldn't figure out what was wrong. Software engineers were stumped. And when I finally resorted to calling the police...” This time, his laughter is steeped in bitterness. “The police are definitely being paid off. They go out of their way to avoid this place. Even the emergency services give Freddy's a wide berth. Everybody knows there's something happening to people here, but no one will do anything about it. And why would they? The androids aren't dangerous to anyone outside these walls.”

“What about the customers?”

“What about the customers?” Scott echoes, stressing the word 'about'. “Half of them come because they've heard of our reputation, and they wanna see the haunted restaurant up close. The other half are either from out of town or incredibly ignorant. Either way, if they know what's good for them, they only come in when we're open. The androids have a schedule, see. While the restaurant's in business, they do their jobs. And they do them really, really well, because they're professionals and they've been in this business for longer than any of us. But when the pizzeria closes, they're off-duty, and they're free to pursue their own hobbies.”

It's Mike's turn to be the parrot. “Hobbies?”

Scott nods. “Hobbies. Like cooking. Or straightening out the drawings in the halls. Or, uh, hunting down any trespassers that might be on the grounds and preventing them from causing trouble. That counts, too.”

That's the same explanation the tapes gave. “So the androids are trying to kill us because they think we've broken in after hours?”

Scott gives him a shaky smile. “That's my theory, anyway. Doesn't explain everything, but.”

“And the authorities won't take deaths on the premises seriously.”

“Disappearances,” Scott corrects him. “There hasn't been a death reported in Freddy's for twenty years.”

“And this just... gets covered up? Nobody investigates?” Mike stares up at him, willing Scott to laugh and tell him the real story.

Scott nods, chipper smile sliding back into place. “Yup. But then, we're not the sort whose disappearances get investigated, are we?”

Mike opens his mouth. Then he stops. If he disappeared, what would happen? His family's made it clear they don't want him. He has no friends. The people he went to high school with moved on to higher education or other opportunities. There's a few people he talks with at his other job, but none of them know more than his name and his lack of interest in sports. To the world, he might as well be invisible.

If he disappears, the only person who might care is Aunt Sharon, and then only because she doesn't like losing her things.

His tongue darts out, wetting his lips. “No, we aren't.”

Scott reaches out, slow as molasses, and ruffles Mike's hair. “You can quit if you want to. Management won't be happy, but Pam's the reasonable sort. She'll understand. Especially once she sees you.”

Mike looks at him, uncomprehending. Scott sighs and straightens up, clapping his hands together.

“Well, let's get some breakfast into you before we make any decisions. You two, shut the hell up. We're taking Mike to the dining hall ASAP.”

Mike only realizes the argument was still going on when it cuts off. Jeremy climbs stiffly to his feet, brushing off his trousers. Fritz unfolds himself from an intricate pretzel, a process that takes about fifteen seconds. At no point is his phone more than thirty centimetres from his face.

“If anyone tries to talk to you, you don't have to say anything. Just look right through them,” Jeremy says.

“And don't worry about being caught talking about killer androids in public.” Fritz reaches for the door. “You're one of us now, and the day Freddy's manages to keep us from sharing survival tips is the day I'm fired permanently. 'Sides,” he adds, “the day shift all think we're crazy anyways.

* * *

**"Mornin', Bon. Yer lookin' rather blue today."**

**"Good morning, Foxy."**

**"Hunt not turn out like ye wanted?"**

**"It wasn't ideal, no. It's unusual to see you out and about so early. What's the occasion?"**

**"Thought I'd take a look around. See the kiddies. Get a look at the new guy."**

**"Chica told you."**

**"That she did! But even if she hadn't blabbed, I'd still want a look. Ain't often something escapes yer delicate grasp. I wants ta see the marks you left. And the look on his face when he sees you coming."**

**"How kind of you to volunteer to take my shift. I'll head over to their table as soon as they're settled in."**


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break, I had to focus on classes for a while. Here's hoping the action in this chapter will make up for it~

Mike is unprepared for the amount of noise in the halls. As soon as the door swings open, he flinches back, and immediately feels like kicking himself. Is he going to start jumping at every little noise now? Is that the kind of person he is? He has exactly eighteen seconds to indulge in self-hatred before Scott's hand lands on his shoulder, tugging him gently away from the door. Mike lets himself be led back, silently thankful. At least this way, he can pretend to keep some semblance of dignity.

When he finally looks up, the senior guard is smiling. “Takes a bit of adjustment, doesn't it?”

Mike swallows, trying to dredge up some moisture from a throat that feels bone dry. “Understatement.”

“Definitely.” 

Fritz is still glued to his phone, but at some point in the last few seconds he went from standing off to the side to blocking the doorway. He's too thin to be much of a shield against the barrage of sensations, but Mike appreciates both the effort and the deliberately careless manner of it. Nothing about Fritz's demeanour implies that he moved for Mike's benefit. For some reason, that makes it a bit easier to bear.

The way Jeremy mirrors Mike's unthinking fear and shrinks back shouldn't help. It does, if only because it hammers in that he's not alone in ways that Fritz's silent consideration and the warmth of Scott's hand can't.

Jeremy squares his shoulders. His eyes flicker over to Mike's, hold briefly, then skitter back to the door.

He clears his throat. “Gonna stay there forever, Fritz?”

“Shut the hell up,” Fritz says. “You bastards coming or what?”

Scott looks at Jeremy, who nods, then at Mike. “Ready?”

There's only one answer he can give.

“Yeah,” Mike says, pulling his lips into a shaky smile. “I'm ready.”

They head out together. Safety in numbers and all that. Fritz takes point, somehow managing to avoid walking into anything – or anyone, for that matter – without looking away from his phone. _Witchcraft,_ hisses the part of Mike that thinks it's funny. _Wiiiiiitchcraft._ He doesn't say it aloud. Jeremy's walking beside him, green eyes darting everywhere, looking pale and fragile under the fluorescent lights. Mike's not sure how he's feeling about the guy at the moment, but he doesn't want to scare anyone, and right now he suspects it wouldn't take much to spook Jeremy.

To be fair, it wouldn't take much to spook him, either.

As for Scott... the hand disappears soon after they get moving, but Scott's reassuringly solid presence stays just behind him. Mike's glad, especially when they hit the part of the building that's now occupied.

The halls are no longer empty. Instead, they're positively bustling. The day shift has arrived, and those who aren't busy yawning and blinking the sleep out of their eyes are hard at work. Mike isn't sure what, exactly, they're working at, and the night guards sweep past too quickly for him to puzzle it out. It doesn't really matter, since the day shift tend to drop everything and gawk as soon as the group draws near.

Jeremy flinches away from their gazes. Fritz pays no attention. Scott is almost certainly wearing his too-bright, plastic smile again. And Mike... Mike just stares through them. He's too tired for this.

At least nobody tries to talk to them. Gawking aside, they wander through the halls basically unopposed. Mike lets his mind drift, trusting the others not to let him walk into a wall. 

Scott. He's trusting Scott. Jeremy's still an asshole, and Fritz would probably just smirk.

And his trust is well-placed, because Scott taps his shoulder when they reach their destination. Mike jolts back to himself, heart pounding. It takes him a second to calm down. They wait until his breathing slows to open the door.

The dining hall is blindingly bright. Sunlight streams in through the windows, pooling on the tile and setting the wood panelling aflame. Even the plastic tables look warm and welcoming, especially the one Fritz steers them to. 

Mike blinks and finds himself sitting down. Huh. At least this chair's more comfortable than the one he spent all night falling out of. The soreness he's feeling comes from muscle pain and bruising, not shoddy construction. Although, the office chair did survive all the abuse he put it through. Maybe it's not so badly made after all...

“Oi, you still with us?”

“Hm?” He looks up to find that the others seated themselves while he wasn't paying attention. “I'm fine.”

Fritz looks at him flatly. “You'd say that while you were bleeding out, wouldn't you.”

It's not an insult, but Mike bristles anyway. Fritz rolls his eyes and leans back in his seat, allowing Scott to take over the conversation once more.

What passes for a conversation at this point, anyways.

“Tired?”

Mike nods.

“Don't worry. The androids are mostly harmless after six AM, and the day shift guys know better than to bother us. Someone will be by with our menus soon, and after that–” A tiny pause. “– you can tell Pam you'd like to quit, go home, and never have to deal with any of this again.”

Another nod. Scott gives Fritz a speaking glance and jerks his shoulder toward Mike. Fritz rolls his eyes again, but tucks his phone away and sits up, in that order.

“Okay, you know that thing you're doing where you're looking at us, but not actually paying attention to anything? You need to to stop it. It might seem like it's helping, but shock is not your friend.”

“I'm not in shock,” Mike says defensively.

It's true. He knows what shock feels like. There's no pain in his chest, and any dizziness he feels is because he pulled an all-nighter. His right hand is kind of horrifying to look at, but the left is intact, aside from the spreading puddle of red encircling the wrist. The fingernails aren't exactly a healthy colour, but they aren't blue. And so what if he's been feeling weak and shaky ever since Fritz helped him off the desk? He almost died so many times he might have actually lost count. Weakness means he's human, not that he's in the middle of some kind of medical emergency. He glares at Fritz, channeling his frustration and most of his terror into a silent request for the other guard to spontaneously combust.

Fritz looks slightly impressed. Slightly.

“Got experience with it?”

“Yes,” Mike says shortly.

Fritz takes a look at his expression and doesn't ask him to elaborate. “All right. Jeremy?”

The blond reaches under the table and pulls out a box, setting it down in front of him. Then, mindful of his fingers, which have been bitten to the quick, he unlatches it. An array of gauze, bandages, and antiseptics peek out.

“First aid kit,” Jeremy says quietly. “There's usually another one in the office, but it ran out yesterday. This one stays under our table.”

“Seems like an odd choice,” Mike says. “Wouldn't anyone who sits here notice?”

Green eyes skitter away from him. “It's our table.” 

“It, uh, really is.” Scott grins sheepishly, pointing at the wall behind Mike. “Look.”

Mike cranes his neck to find a 'staff only' sign just above his head. Well, that's certainly one way to ensure the first aid kit remains undisturbed.

“There's another for guests?”

Jeremy nods, jabbing a finger toward the door. “In the manager's office.”

“Ah.” 

That makes sense. Time-share or not, they can't exactly keep it in the break room. Mike casts his thoughts around for something else to add. He's taken off-guard when his stomach decides to enter the conversation.

Jeremy startles. The corner of Fritz's mouth twitches up in what looks suspiciously like a smirk. Mike still wants to smack him, but at least he has the decency of restraint. Scott doesn't. He laughs loud enough to make Mike's ears ring. 

“Menu'll be here soon,” Jeremy says, pointedly not looking at Scott.

Mike smiles as sweetly as he can. “Thank you. Any recommendations?”

“Um. Pizza?”

That's not a great sign. “Please tell me they have different toppings, at least.”

“They do,” Jeremy assures him quickly.

He conveniently fails to specify what these toppings are. Any other day, Mike would choke back his sigh, but it's – he leans half out of his seat to check the clock – 6:37 and he hasn't gotten a wink of sleep. The sigh is justified. And Jeremy doesn't seem to take it personally.

“Can I ask about the price range? I'm not exactly rich.”

“None of us are. 'Cept maybe Scott.” Fritz gives the senior guard a bland look.

“Hey!” Scott says indignantly.

Jeremy smiles. It looks as weak as Mike feels, but it totally counts.

“No one who works at Freddy's qualifies as rich.”

Mike raises an eyebrow. “You mean the food isn't horrifically overpriced?”

“It isn't, shockingly enough.” Fritz doesn't smile. His frown does grow noticeably less pronounced, though. “It's healthy, even. Kind of. Chica doesn't let the cooks cut any corners, and the last time someone tried to bring in beef stuffed with antibiotics, she threw a fit.”

“Hmm.” Mike glances at the door leading to the kitchen. “Any mysterious disappearances afterward?”

“No,” Scott says firmly. “But the employee in question quit on the spot. She left town the same day and hasn't been back since.”

“Friend of yours?”

“No. Not really. But I knew her. I know almost everyone here.” 

Scott's tone is light. He might still be smiling. Mike grunts wordlessly, keeping his eyes on the door. His shoulder aches; he rubs at it, but the pressure doesn't help.

People are so easy to hurt. Especially when you don't know you're doing it.

The door opens. Bonnie steps out, the sunlight turning his hair a bright lavender, and shuts it neatly behind him.

* * *

Bonnie's nose isn't half as good as Foxy's, but the scent of blood strikes him as soon as he's out of the kitchen. Something quivers inside him. Something insubstantial and immaterial, but no less real than the bundles of plastic held in his hand. It gets easier to ignore with each step he takes.

The restaurant opens at 8:00. Until then, the only ones in the dining hall are employees. He breezes past the ones sweeping the floor, observing who flinches as he does so. A recent hire scrambles to her feet and backs away as he approaches, dropping the cloth she was using to wipe down tables. He notes its location and continues walking. At the far end of the room, tucked into a corner, is an occupied table.

The four sitting at it are employees, but they shouldn't be.

Fitzgerald is still breathing. Disappointing, but not surprising. He is also remarkably unharmed – the only damage Bonnie can detect is minor and self-inflicted. There are no children to see Bonnie's lip curl. The balloon brats have never been especially serious or vicious about their work, but the Mangle usually does more damage than this. They'll have to have a talk. Later.

With a flick of his ears, Bonnie shifts his attention to the new arrival. Mike Schmidt is in the furthest seat from the kitchen, back to the wall, where he can see the whole room with relatively little effort. Or he would be able to, if he wasn't currently frozen in place. What little colour Schmidt has is drained away; his skin is thin and waxy without it. Mottled bruising stands out along his hands, his arms, his neck, and he hasn't breathed since Bonnie entered the room. He looks like a corpse. 

His heart is pounding, like an animal struggling to tear its way out of his chest. It rather ruins the illusion. A pity.

Bonnie delicately picks his way over to the table and stops less than a metre away. For one long moment, he admires his handiwork. Then he holds out the menus and smiles.

“May I take your order?”

The first time a new night guard hears his voice after a hunt is always the same. Flinch. Pause. Quiver. Attempt to hide behind their useless compatriots. As if anything could protect them if Bonnie broke the rules. Schmidt starts out the same. The flinch happens on automatic – more a reaction to someone in his personal space than an intentional response. A pause, while he tries to process the situation. That hesitation stretches out as he looks up, tired blue eyes rising to meet Bonnie's. 

Bonnie inclines his head, smiling wider.

Schmidt smiles back.

It's not a good smile. There's no sense of welcome or playfulness. A crying child wouldn't even acknowledge it, tight and desperate as it is. But it's a smile, and it looks horribly out of place on Schmidt's waxy face.

“Thanks,” he croaks, and reaches stiffly for the menus.

Their hands brush as the creaking slabs of plastic change ownership. Schmidt flinches again, almost drops them, and recovers just in time to catch the menus with his fingertips. He maintains eye contact with Bonnie the whole time. Only when the menus are safely deposited on the table does he look away long enough to crack one open. Bonnie waits in silence, observing the table from over Schmidt's shoulder.

Fitzgerald looks ready to fall off his chair. Smith appears to have swallowed a lemon. And Callahan, judging by the unpleasant way his face has lit up, is thinking again.

Schmidt lowers his menu and gives them all a pointed look. “You're not going to eat?”

His voice is steadier when he doesn't have Bonnie in his field of vision.

“No,” Fitzgerald rasps, crumpling in on himself like tissue paper. “I'm fine.”

Smith snorts and taps the pile. “My usual.”

There's still something wild in his eyes, but his expression is back to its usual deadpan. Smith's mask is well-worn and practiced, able to be called up at a moment's notice. Impressive. Also irritating. As is his taste for mini pancakes shaped like Freddy's head. Pancakes aren't even on the breakfast menu, but if he doesn't get what he ordered, he'll drag out that damned waffle iron and try making them himself.

Callahan puts on his blandest smile and requests coffee. Bonnie says nothing and stays where he is, hands clasped in front of him. He has no pad to write down orders. He doesn't need one.

Schmidt turns the page, leaving reddish streaks on the plastic. Bonnie winces inwardly and reminds himself to scrub that off before the children come in. His gloves also need changing. This pair acquired a few stains over the night.

Another flip. Either Schmidt is putting an impressive amount of focus into choosing his entree, or he's trying not to fall asleep. The scent of terror is omnipresent until the restaurant opens, but Bonnie thinks it may have lessened. Foxy or Freddy would know better, but –

Wait. Foxy's out of the cove.

 **“What do you think?”**  he asks, lips still fixed in their gentle curve.

 **“I think I be bored,”**  Foxy grumbles from the kitchen.  **“No screamin', no cryin', no runnin' fer the hills... this be one hell of a letdown.”**

 **“Language,”**  Freddy murmurs from backstage.

The reprimand drifts through the walls, so quiet that Bonnie nearly fails to register it as a word. If Foxy heard it, he gives no sign.

**“Barely even any blood. He's a little one, too. Ain't they easier to gut?”**

**“I wouldn't know,”**  Bonnie says primly.  **“I go for the throat.”**

 **“And look how that turned out for ye.”**  There's a pause while Foxy shakes himself – away from the food, judging by the lack of outraged shrieking from Chica.  **“This be dull. Poke him or somethin'.”**

Schmidt turns to the final page. Bonnie takes a moment to recall the feel of the night guard's pulse hammering under his fingers before he speaks again.

**“Can you smell his fear?”**

**“Of course I – oh. Oh.”**  Foxy's smirk is audible.  **“Now this be interestin'.”**

Bonnie inhales. Definitely less fear than expected. Other than that, his nose is decidedly unhelpful.

**“Care to elaborate?”**

**“The brat's afraid, all right, but he be workin' through it. That ain't a trained response. Self-taught.”**  Foxy's tone turns sly.  **“Bet I can break it.”**

There are times for eloquence and times for simplicity. Watching Schmidt's tired, bruised eyes droop in the shiny plastic makes it easy to tell which this is.

**“Foxy. No. Mine.”**

Bonnie stops paying attention to the answering grumbles when the menu snaps closed. Schmidt swivels in his seat, meeting the android's piercing stare without a moment's hesitation. His grin is almost steady.

“One individual pizza, please. Plain cheese.”

Split-second decisions aren't something Bonnie's fond of, but he keeps catching himself making them. Sometimes, it's necessary. Other times, it's just fun.

As he begins to move, he knows this will be both.

Bonnie lets his mask drop. His body language shifts from innocuous to deadly promise. His eyes burn in their sockets. His smile, carefully constructed over years of experimentation and research, twists into a wretched mockery. It's awful. He hates it. It's the only smile he has that feels real anymore.

He places a hand on the back of the chair and leans in, crowding Schmidt until the night guard barely has room to breathe. The glow from his eyes is harder to pick out in daylight, but at this proximity, it can't be missed. Mike Schmidt is frozen once again, heart hammering at the walls of its fleshy prison, face bathed in red. Slowly, deliberately, Bonnie reaches out to pluck the laminated bundle from his grip. He's careful to keep the bloodstains on his glove visible the entire time.

Then he straightens up, slips the mask back on, and turns on his heel. The walk back to the kitchen is punctuated by ragged breathing and hushed inquiries as to Schmidt's welfare.

Foxy whistles, a long, drawn-out sound that would make service dogs wail in protest.

Bonnie smiles.

**“Mine.”**


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops! Posted that last one out of order. Here's the real chapter 9. Infodumping ahoy!

Some days it just doesn't pay to get out of bed. This is definitely one of those days. Minimum wage is in no way worth this.

“Mike?”

He makes a noise. It's not a word or anything – just a sound, completely bereft of meaning or context. The world is fuzzy green. His eyes itch. There's a way to fix both of those problems, but for the life of him, he can't remember what it is.

“Can he even hear us?”

“I don't know. This has been a lot to take in. Maybe –”

“Oi! Mike! Remember what I said? Shock is not your friend!”

“Not in shock.” The words feel strange on his tongue. “'m fine.”

“Bullshit,” says someone who's entirely too close.

Mike blinks and stiffens up. Fritz is leaning across the table, so far inside his personal bubble that Mike can smell his aftershave. Which, considering the overpowering stench of pizza, is no mean feat.

“What,” Mike rasps.

Fritz squints at him. “You back?”

Mike opens his mouth. Stops. Closes it. His tongue isn't cooperating with him. He nods instead, sending a little jolt of agony racing down his spine.

It gets him a raised eyebrow, but Fritz sits back down. Mike's about to chalk that one up a win when Scott starts talking. The words flow over him, rough and deep. Nothing like the crisp, quiet professionalism of Bonnie's pre-recorded tones.

“-so sorry, if I'd known he'd do that I wouldn't have brought you. We're usually – well. Not safe. Nowhere in this building is safe. But – untouchable? During the day. I'm so, so sorry for this.”

“S'okay,” Mike slurs. “Not your fault.”

Scott's at least six feet tall. He has more muscle in one arm than Mike has, period. His smile has the determined sort of brightness that comes less from joy and more from the knowledge that if you hold the expression long enough, you can trick your brain into releasing some of those chemicals associated with it. And in the morning light, he looks afraid.

Not of something. For something.

“You said I could quit.”

The senior guard looks startled for a second, then dips his head. “You can. Might take a bit to get the paperwork through, though. Best to get started right away.”

“Is there a time limit or something?” Mike asks.

“No.”

“Another set of killer robots waiting to ambush anyone who leaves?”

Scott gives him an odd look. “No, the androids seem to be stuck inside the building.”

“Then why are you still here?” Mike looks over the whole table, including Fritz and Jeremy in the question. “Why not get the hell out while you're still breathing?”

Silence descends, broken only by the drumming of Jeremy's fingertips on the tabletop. Fritz is the first one to break it.

“Impulsive risk-taking, mild depression, possible PTSD – no, I'm not telling you why – and suicidal tendencies.”

Jeremy squeezes his eyes shut, the words coming out in a jumbled rush. “Because sometimes I'd rather run the risk of dying than spend one more second around people.”

Scott looks at them both with a complicated expression, then shakes his head. “It's my job. 'Sides, I remember what they used to be like. I might not be able to find a way to fix this, but I definitely won't if I run away.”

Mental illness. A stress outlet and an adrenaline rush. Duty and guilt and the need to at least try saving something you care about. Three angles to a feature story that sounds uncomfortably familiar. For a moment, Mike just breathes, air rasping against his dry throat. Nobody talks. The trio seem to have exhausted their vocabularies for the moment, even Scott.

Slowly, purposely, Mike lifts a hand to his neck. An uneven ring of abrasions and tender flesh quivers under his fingertips. Souvenirs from last night. He won't be able to see them without a mirror, but he doesn't doubt they're visible. On his skin, even cat scratches show up vivid crimson. The bruises must be blooming across his collarbone already. Aunt Sharon is going to be livid unless he comes up with a good story for her.

Assault? Mugging? Collision with some moron riding a bike on the sidewalk? He flinches away from the thought of anything to do with cars. Maybe if he says he walked into a tree, she'll be too busy telling the neighbours how stupid he is to ream him out for it.

His thoughts are running in circles, trying to find something – anything – to focus on. He doesn't want to think about this. Doesn't want to make a decision.

Isn't that telling?

The sound of his cough cracks through the room like a gunshot. “When will Ms. Sanchez get here?”

“Soon,” Scott promises.

“About fifteen more minutes,” Fritz clarifies. “She needs to finish crying in the bathroom first.”

“I see.” Mike empathizes with her so much right now. He plasters on a bright, fake smile and beams at them instead. “Anyone got a mirror?”

They don't, unsurprisingly. Jeremy's quick to hand over his phone, though, and quicker to point out where the camera is. Once Mike manages to get his fingers to hit the right buttons, he's got a nice view of his own face. It's not as bad as he expected.

Still pretty bad, though.

His neck is red and swelling, and since his tie seems to have gotten lost at some point, the marks left by Bonnie's fingers are all too visible. Bruises are popping up everywhere, and his shoulder still aches. The pain is low, but consistent, and gets sharper when he moves his arm. He's not looking forward to changing clothes, but he'll have to. This set is rumpled, dusty, and dotted with drying blood.

His blood.

“What happened to you, anyways?” Fritz asks. “Don't tell me – you tripped and brought the desk down on top of you?”

Mike takes his eyes off his reflection just long enough to give that the look it deserves. “No.”

“Closed the door on your face?” The lousy punk peers at him from across the table. “Nah, your head doesn't look thick enough to survive it. Did Chica get in a smack when you closed them on her?”

“Bonnie got in,” Mike says, and expects the line of questioning to end.

It does. It cuts off so thoroughly that he can no longer hear his coworkers at all. Are they breathing? He lasts about ten seconds before raising his gaze to check.

No, they aren't breathing. In fact, they sort of look ready to pass out.

Okay, Jeremy looks ready to pass out. Scott just looks like he's had a mild shock, and Fritz is giving off the distinct impression that someone jammed an axe into the back of his skull and he's about to go into his death throws.

Mike glares at them. “What?”

It's too late for this shit. Early. Whatever.

Fritz shakes his head slowly, sending his asymmetrical bangs swaying back and forth. “How the fuck are you alive?”

“As soon as he got his hand around my neck, the bell rang. My shift ended just in time.”

That gets a chuckle out of Scott, for some reason. The bigger man relaxes, leaning back in his chair.

“So you're saying you were saved by the bell?”

Mike gives him an odd look. “Is that a reference to something?”

“Yes,” Fritz tells him. “Don't ask.”

Hm. To listen to the delinquent asshole, or not to listen to the delinquent asshole? Decisions, decisions. Mike turns to Scott, preparing to grill him, when a cracked sob catches his attention.

Oh, fuck – Jeremy's crying.

“Um,” Mike says intelligently. “It's okay?”

“No, it's not.” The sound of tears hitting plastic is audible. It's like rain, but sadder. “This should never have happened.”

It takes Mike a sec to untangle the implications. He goes from confused and awkward to pissed in a fraction of the time.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarls. “It was my choice to come here, okay? Not yours. My hands dialed the number, my voice said 'yes,' my feet took me here. All you did was fail to tell me something I wouldn't have believed anyways. Nothing that happened last night was your fault, except for the part where you tried to be an asshole for no goddamn reason. So just. Stop.”

Jeremy is staring at him. So is everyone else. Even the cleaning crew are gawking. Thank god the androids aren't out yet. If Bonnie locked eyes with him again, Mike thinks he might actually die.

The door chooses then to swing open, announcing the action with a loud creak. He turns so fast he can feel every bruise. Ms. Sanchez hovers in the entryway, eyes darting back and forth. There's an envelope in her hand, one of the big papery ones they give you report cards in. She clutches it to her chest when she scurries forward, heading unerringly for their table.

Under the make-up and the severe little bun, she does look like she's been crying.

This is the woman who hired him for a job he was likely to get killed at, without breathing a word of warning. Scott tried to hint at what he was in for. So did Fritz. Even Jeremy gave it a shot, although his methods sucked ass. But her? Nothing. Mike should probably feel something about that. But the anger disappears as quickly as it rose, and without it, he just feels empty. Empty and tired.

There's only four chairs at the table. Ms. Sanchez makes no move to grab another. She hovers instead, trying to stare at Mike without making it obvious what she's doing.

“Good morning,” she says. “Have you eaten already?”

Jeremy shakes his head, mute.

Scott directs the full force of his smile at her. “Server's late.”

“Fucker's probably waiting for the least convenient time to pop out of the woodwork.” There's a little tinny 'boop' as Fritz's game starts up again.

Look at them, all 'let's have a normal conversation and pretend nobody almost died.' It's cute. Too bad Mike's in no mood for small talk.

“What's in the envelope?”

Her expression freezes. When it settles, she's smiling.

“Not one to beat around the bush, are you? It's tonight's pay and termination forms.”

That... doesn't sound right. “I'm fired?”

She puffs herself up like a blowfish. “Of course not! Don't be ridiculous.” Just as quickly, she deflates. “We can't afford to let go of night shift personnel so easily. But, if you want to quit, these will make it easier for you. That said, I have a request.”

Mike blinks at her. “Bit late for that, isn't it?”

“I'm aware. Circumstances demand I make it anyway. Please don't leave.”

His ears must be failing him again. For the second time in less than a minute.

“'Don't leave?' What's that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” She looks at him imploringly. “I am so very sorry I didn't tell you what you were walking into. I can answer questions now, if you like. Just... please. Stay. What we're doing here is important. More important than any of us.”

Pretty words. The funny thing is, Mike's fairly sure she believes them. Not that it matters. At this point, he must sound like a broken record, but he almost died last night. He's done. Time to run off into the sunset before the killer robots hiding in the kitchen change their minds about letting him live. He opens his mouth to tell her this.

What comes out is, “Can I think about it?”

Goddamn it, brain. Now is not the time for this doublethink crap.

Some of the tension leaks out of her stout frame. “Of course. If you like, we can talk while you eat.”

“Assuming the food ever comes,” Fritz grumbles.

“It will,” Mike says.

If he's learned anything over the last six hours, it's that Bonnie never passes up a chance to mess with him. Or mess him up.

“So,” he asks, resting his chin on his hand, “First question. Why are homicidal androids considered okay restaurant attractions? Last time I checked, murder was still very illegal.”

To her credit, Ms. Sanchez does at least look uncomfortable as she prepares herself for the oncoming storm of queries. Good, Mike thinks savagely, and prepares to turn up the heat.

* * *

“Freddy Fazbear's Pizza has been operating out of this location for twenty-eight years, but our mascots are older. How much older, no one knows, but they came to Fazbear Entertainment with the purchase of the building, and the previous owners got them the same way. They adjusted smoothly to the new management and continued with the business of entertaining customers, waiting tables, and ruling the kitchen with an iron fist. For eight years, Freddy, Bonnie, Foxy, and Chica existed in a weird limbo between being property and being employees.”

Mike rolls the thought around, examining it from every angle, then nods. “What changed?”

“The Bite happened.” Ms. Sanchez looks down, lips pressed together. “Scott may have mentioned it. He was working here when it occurred. Suffice to say that, since then, the mascots have been... unpredictable.”

“Ravening nightmares from hell, you mean.”

Exasperation flickers across her face before lapsing back into neutrality. “I mean unpredictable.”

“S'okay, Mike,” Fritz tells him. “I like your version better.”

Ms. Sanchez turns a glare on him and he shuts up, going back to his game with all the offended dignity of a scruffled feline. Mike half-wants to give him a pat on the head, but he's not sure he'd get his hand back intact. Intact-ish. God, everything hurts.

“What was the Bite?” he asks, resisting the urge to drum his aching fingers on the table.

“A stain on our establishment's history. I'm not going to go into detail. If you're not planning to come back, it's not relevant, and if you are, you can look it up on your own time.”

Mike feels his hackles shoot up. He's all set to jump down her throat when he notices how fragile she looks. The stiffness has gone out of her spine, leaving her hunched over and brittle. Saying those words seems to have aged her fifty years. Some people wouldn't be swayed by that show of weakness – some would just be spurred on – but for better or worse, Mike isn't one of them. He backs down and changes the subject.

“So, how is the pizzeria still in business when it's infested with ravening nightmares from hell?”

Some of the tightness in her face eases, but she still looks uncomfortable. Mike refuses to feel guilty about that.

“I don't know how much of that question I can answer. I'll do my best,” she says hastily, cutting him off before he can do more than open his mouth, “but I'm not that high up the management chain. There's a lot going on behind the scenes. You may be better off asking Scott about some of it.”

Scott left five minutes ago, right after she first showed up. 

“Fine.” Mike flaps a hand at her. “Just talk.”

She inhales sharply, then blows it all out before speaking. Standard relaxation technique. Sometimes it even works.

“First, whatever's going on with the mascots, it's not something that can be fixed. They were never particularly interested in letting technicians look them over. Now, they're more than willing to use violence to escape. We've lost a few employees to panic responses, so we eventually stopped trying to make them submit to maintenance. They appear to be fully capable of taking care of themselves.” Another breath. “Superficial damage rarely impedes their functioning, and almost all damage appears to be superficial. If anything can cause permanent harm to their internal structure, I've yet to see it happen. Repairs take place with surprising speed, and without explanation. This, combined with their speed and strength – which I'm sure you've had the good fortune of experiencing – makes it very hard to just them shut them down.”

The screech of the doors trying and failing to close on Chica's slim arm echoes in Mike's ears. He shudders despite himself.

“Yeah, okay. I'm with you so far.”

She gives him a weary smile. “Good. Second, regardless of who's in charge, the mascots do not leave the restaurant. Not because of lawsuits or regulations, although both have been suggested as a means to control them. The entire concept of exiting the building seems alien to them. The few times the subject was broached – all well before the Bite – left both parties confused and frustrated. When the shift from friendly mascot to bloodthirsty monster happened, this was one of the few behaviours that didn't change, day or night.”

“And you didn't just lock them in and throw away the key, why?”

“Because of my third point.” The smile vanishes, replaced with grim resignation. “As long as they have jobs to do and children to entertain, the androids remain calm for at least twelve hours per day, and someone with a lot of power, influence, and money isn't willing to risk this changing. So, instead of bulldozing the building or boarding it up and abandoning its murderous residents, Freddy Fazbear's Pizza stays open. Its hours were restricted. Its surroundings were emptied, whole neighbourhoods 'encouraged' to relocate. And its advertising campaign began targeting a very specific kind of customer.”

A scowl works its way onto his face. He can tell he isn't going to like this. 

“What kind?”

“The kind who's willing to sign very specific waivers to let their children romp and frolic with robotic killing machines.”

Mike can't help it. He laughs, a sharp bark of sound that would probably give Jeremy a heart-attack. But Jeremy split at the same time as Scott, giving Ms. Sanchez a worried look over his shoulder. Just Fritz left, and he seems content to ignore the increasingly disturbing conversation going on under his nose.

“You're joking. There's no way anyone would knowingly subject their kids to these things.”

Even as the words leave his mouth, he knows they're wrong. People are horrible and stupid and they do dumb things for no reason. Besides, Mike knows he wouldn't have believed the truth if someone had told him. These idiots probably scan the forms as closely as they scan a software agreement: scroll to the bottom, click 'okay'. Flip to the last page, sign. Done. 

People, he thinks, are _terrible_.

He's terrible, too. Because he isn't going to walk away from this. Even as he pushes away from the table, hissing as the movement jars his new bruises, he knows he's coming back tonight. Willingly. For the same bullshit reasons the other guards already spelled out.

Because no one will miss him when he's gone.

“You don't need to make a decision now,” Ms. Sanchez says before he left. “Think about it today. Tell me what you've decided in the evening.”

“I don't have a phone,” he tells her.

She smiles again. It doesn't reach her weary eyes. “If you come back tonight night, I'll assume you've decided to keep the job.”

Mike isn't sure if that expression comes from exhaustion, guilt, or helplessness, but it's familiar. And while he can't be sure of the exact blend of emotions behind it, he has a feeling he knows what thought those muddled feelings stem from. How many lost youths has she seen off at the door, shaking, pale, and sometimes bleeding? How many of them turned up a few hours later, their faces bleak with the realization that they had no reason not to throw their lives away?

If you do something long enough, you come to understand it on a deeper level than the facts could support. These are things you know in your bones.

She knows he'll come back. She knew well before he did.

The idea of being so easy to predict doesn't sit well with Mike, but what's he going to do? Quit and go home, where Aunt Sharon is waiting? Where he'll spend the rest of his life jumping at shadows and seeing red whenever he closes his eyes? The frustration of being read like a book is nothing compared to the sickening prospect of staying like this. One way or another, he needs closure.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just when you thought I'd forgotten about this fic, UPDATE! Time to take a peek at Mike's totally ordinary, average, everyday home life. Which in no way resembles any fairytales whatsoever.
> 
> ...
> 
> I swear it wasn't on purpose.
> 
> UPDATE: Posted this out of order. Please check out the real chapter 9 for valuable infodumping and resolution.

Sharon Schmidt's house is small and cramped and smells of mildew, like a shoebox left out in the rain. It has two floors: one above ground, one below. Every free inch of the upper level is packed with trinkets, knick-knacks, and thingamabobs – stuff so weird, esoteric, and generally out of place that Mike can't even begin to put names to half of it. The roof leaks irregularly, whether or not there's been rain, and an elaborate system of pulleys and basins sprawls across the narrow walkways, just waiting to be tripped over.

Not by Mike, though – not today. The bus ride from the pizzeria did jack shit to ease the tension coiling in his gut. He flinched every time one of his fellow passengers breathed too loud. Shot to his feet when the vehicle shifted under him. Choked on his tongue every time the engine coughed. And the staring...

Long story short, his nerves are shot, and he's painfully aware of everything in his immediate proximity. Getting down the stairs without knocking over a bucket is easy.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” he tells them. “She'll be up soon.”

The basement is – well, it's home to him, has been for the last three years, but that doesn't change the fact that it's pretty far from homey. There's one and a half working lightbulbs; the bathroom light only turns on when it feels like it. The floor's covered in molding carpet and old concrete. Three walls are raw wood, wisps of insulation peeking through the cracks; the fourth is stone, leading to a root cellar Aunt Sharon takes great pride in having never used. Cold radiates from it all hours of the day. In the summers, that's a blessing, but the rest of the year it just leaves Mike shivering in his blankets. Makes him hate everything a little bit more.

He has to admit that something really is wrong when he stumbles out of the staircase and barely feels the chill.

“Not going into shock. You hear me, self? Knock it off.”

His voice sounds weird. Thick. Like syrup, or molasses, or –

Red.

He blinks, and the room swims back into focus. Unfreezing his muscles takes a few more seconds; seconds that leave him entirely too lightheaded. Mike blinks again. The walls waver a bit, mirage-like, but remain a grungy brown. He drops his bag near the stairwell and walks forward.

Shimmering or not, the floor's where he thinks it is. Thank fucking god.

It's a good day; the bathroom light sparks a bit, but turns on with no more than a token fuss. He bends over the tiny sink and splashes water in his face. The blur at the edge of his vision recedes, a little. He looks up and flinches away from his own reflection.

No wonder people were staring. What looked awful in the lens of Jeremy's phone is horrifying in the grim-covered glass. The skin around his neck is red, puffy, and dotted with scabs-to-be. A shirt saying 'someone tried to strangle me' might actually be more subtle than walking around like this. His wrist is blue halfway to his elbow, sending little throbs of pain up his arm when he moves it. That's gonna get old fast, but at least it doesn't look so... deliberate.

His fingers are still fucked, but he can move them, and he doesn't think they've gotten any worse. The nails look kinda dark, but that might just be the lighting. Or damage to the nail beds caused by trying to claw Bonnie's arm off.

As if on cue, something red glints in the mirror. Mike's eyes immediately zero in, only for the colour to vanish.

He glares at the spot he thinks it was coming from. “Really?”

No answer. He glowers a bit longer, then goes back to admiring his collection of injuries. Aunt Sharon wakes up at eight. It's seven now. He has an hour to figure out how to make himself look presentable, or at least a bit less 'battered spouse.' The wrist will be easy enough – long sleeves and a pair of gloves. That'll cover up his fingers, too, and hopefully he can rig some kind of inconspicuous splint for the ones that scream when they're bent.

The neck, though...

He turns on his heel and walks out, leaving the light on. If he turns it off, it could be hours before he can get it working again. The glow isn't much, but all the windows are buried in dirt. Every little bit counts. He takes advantage of the light to rifle through his dresser – secondhand, squat, wood peeling off in chunks – looking for something that might cover this. He has turtlenecks. Okay, he has a turtleneck, a big black one that lives at the bottom of his drawers. One he used to pull on at night, when he couldn't close his eyes for fear of what he might see. It felt almost like a hug.

Right now, it just feels like a mass of itchy wool, and it's still way too big for him. When he pulls it on over his uniform, the sleeves reach down to his knees. It's a scratchy wool dress, and if he wears this, Aunt Sharon will flay him alive. He puts it back, burying it safely under layers of cheap tees and sweatshirts, and looks for another option.

Sweatshirts don't work. The collars aren't high enough, and walking around with a hood up is the same as painting a target on his back. He's pretty sure he used to have some sort of high-collared dress shirt, but hell if he can find it. Maybe he outgrew it. Maybe he forgot it at the last place he stayed. Maybe she went through his stuff again and swiped it.

He sits back on his heels, ignoring the twinge in his hip, and rubs at his eyes until they stop burning. This is stupid. He almost died last night. This morning, he heard one of the craziest stories outside the science fiction genre ever. He shouldn't be getting worked up over something so small.

When he lowers his hands, another burst of red is waiting for him. He freezes up, heart pounding at his chest like it could burst free and skitter across the room, under the bed, where the world can't find it. Then the light fades, no blinking required, and he's alone in the basement again. Mike stands up, his legs wobbling underneath him.

“Dear eyes, stop playing tricks on me. I've been through enough shit today without your help.”

There's no reply. His eyes are rude little bastards. Not that surprising, given who they're attached to.

Ugh. He doesn't have time for this. He needs to cover up, then get breakfast started. The key to a successful interaction with Aunt Sharon is to meet her on his own terms and give her as little to work with as possible. That means meeting her demands before she can make him, not talking back, and showing no signs of weakness. The marks on his neck are nothing if not a sign of weakness. Ergo, the marks need to go.

If he had access to makeup, this wouldn't be a problem. He spent half his childhood helping Lissa paint herself up; covering something like this would be a cinch. Probably. Assuming the makeup was waterproof, didn't rub off, and nothing started to bleed again. As is, he needs something to wear over it. The turtleneck initiative didn't pan out, but there must be something down here he can use. Something that fits the dress code for his job at the store.

Shit. He has work in two hours. That puts a whole new spin on things.

There's a lot of things he could do here. Call in sick. Spend the day hiding under his mattress, wishing for a bedframe. Walk out the door and keep going until he just can't anymore and never darken this doorstep again. What he actually does is brush his hands off on his pants, smears of dust blending smoothly into the fabric, and head over to the far wall.

Up close, the root cellar is freezing. Mike pauses just outside the door, steels himself, and reaches for the knob. Ten seconds to deal with the lock; three to drag it open. No lights here. He lets go of the door, blowing on his fingers, and peers into the dark.

Lissa's scarf is where he left it, a sad little pile of blue fluff. The fabric's still soft when he picks it up. He'd half-expected it to have gone threadbare over the years, but why would it have? He hasn't even looked at it in over a year. For a few seconds, he just holds it, lopsided ends swinging aimlessly. Then he loops the scarf around his neck in quick, jerky movements. The pressure on his throat isn't comfortable, but it doesn't hurt, and the touch is... soothing. He runs his fingers gently over the fabric, noting the position of every lump and slipped stitch. His little sister was pretty awful at knitting, but damn if she didn't try. He has no doubt that, if she'd had a chance to, she'd have been making lumpy scarves for the rest of her life.

He leaves the root cellar, nudging the door closed with his heel. The rest of the basement feels warm in comparison. Boiling, even. He only realizes he's been shivering when he stops.

A quick look in the mirror confirms what he suspected: the scarf looks ridiculous. About all he can say in its defence is that it's the same blue as his eyes. Faint praise.

Another glance at the clock. 7:30. Ish. Analog clocks are so much harder to read, but the long hand is almost vertical. He backtracks, checks the mirror to make sure all the marks are covered up, and heads for the stairs. Bucket, bucket, basin, repurposed jump rope stretched across the floor, dish rack, kitchen. He's got the frying pan in hand and is reaching for the eggs when another flash of red, reflected in the sink, stops the air in his lungs.

He can't move. Can't breathe. Can't look away.

There's something behind him.

Somewhere far away, there's a crack. Mike looks down, eyes watering, and stares stupidly at the broken mess spilling out onto the floor. The egg carton's fallen. He must have knocked it over.

Stupid, he thinks.

“What have you done now?” the voice behind him cracks like a whip.

A smile rises to his lips automatically as he turns, tucking the frying pan behind himself. “I'm sorry, Aunt Sharon. Did I wake you?”

“Of course you did, stupid boy.” She shoves into his personal space, blue eyes narrowed. “Look at this mess.”

“I'll clean it up.”

“Damn right you will.”

Another glare at the eggs before she turns away, raking a hand through a her hair and growling under her breath. It looks messier than usual, less an actual style and more a mass of flyaway locks trying to escape her scalp. Her bathrobe is pink, with patterns of strawberries. It's cute, the sort of thing Lissa would have liked. It probably wants to flee her person, too.

The rest of her kingdom is untouched. Mike knows better than to mess with her table settings, touch her silverware, or – god forbid – meddle with her blender. That thing cost more than he brings home in six months. It's one of the most expensive items in the house. Aunt Sharon spends twice as much time examining it as she does the rest of her hoard. Mike watches, smile frozen on his lips. Finally, she pulls back and yawns, yellow teeth bared.

“Can't believe you're still doing this. How hard is it to make eggs?”

“It isn't, Aunt Sharon.”

There's a rhythm to early morning conversation. As long as he follows it, things will be fine.

“'Course it isn't.” She scoffs, huddling herself deeper into soft pink fuzz. “Do you do it on purpose? Some dumb ass attempt to get back at me for taking you in when my brother dumped you?”

“No, Aunt Sharon.”

“I could have let them take you. Not like the foster system isn't full to bursting and stuffed with undesirables. How long do you think you'd have lasted?”

“Not long.”

They'd have let him go two years ago. Foster care drops you when you turn eighteen. Mike's been nineteen for months, still doesn't have the cash to live on his own, and he's not sure what his other options are. Assuming he has them.

She glares at him. “Well?”

“Thank you, Aunt Sharon,” he says dutifully.

It gets him a grunt before she turns on her heel and walks out. “I'm already up, so I'll be going to the store at eight. Breakfast had better be done before then.”

“Yes, Aunt Sharon.”

Flesh clangs against metal, followed by a splash and a screech. “And clean this mess up!”

“Yes, Aunt Sharon,” he repeats, ducking his head.

Three years under her roof. Eating her food, drinking her water, breathing her air. Mike kneels and begins scooping egg of the floor, spilled yolk cold and sticky against his fingers. There's no need for her to worry. He'll get it done. And then he'll call in sick, change into something that won't get stares on public transportation, and head downtown.

He has a lot of research to do before he goes back to Freddy's.


	11. Chapter 11

Mike was never terribly fond of libraries. They're great in theory, but he's always learned better by doing. His mom loved them, though, and she used to drag him and Lissa to the public library at least once a month. There, the girls would spend a happy hour pouring over books, and he would lose himself among the shelves, rearranging their contents and jumping out at unsuspecting patrons. They aren't his happiest memories, but they aren't terrible, either – just bittersweet.

And, more importantly, they mean he can remember the bus route.

He's traded in yesterday's clothes for a fresh t-shirt, jeans, and a faded black jacket that used to be too big and is now a hair too small. Lissa's scarf is still wrapped around his neck, its lumps concealing everything that the jacket doesn't. Threadbare gloves cover the marks on his hands, and while he can't do much about his overall pallor, the effect is less 'murder victim' and more 'goth kid with no fashion sense.' 

Mike only catches a few people looking at him oddly on the ride. Progress.

The library is exactly as he remembers it: a huge, towering building with far too many turrets and gargoyles to belong to this century. It's ancient, he knows, although he can't remember when it was built. Suffice to say that it's definitely older than him, and probably everyone else he knows. When he was a kid, that sense of age was frightening. He never held his mother's hand tighter than he did when they approached the snarling faces that stood guard on either side of the entrance.

But the gargoyles are just stone. Mike walks past them with no more than a twinge of residual fear. There are worse monsters to haunt him, now.

The inside is a lot more modern than he remembers; the walls gleam with fresh paint, and the old yellow lights have been replaced with fluorescent. Behind the shelves, computers sit in neat rows. Most of them are not in use. He heads toward one of them, jiggles the mouse, and tries to remember how the catalogue system works.

It turns out that the library stocks old newspapers, online and in microfilm. Mike's first few searches turn up nothing but press releases and restaurant reviews, but 'fazbear' and 'death' finally shows him something interesting.

'BIRTHDAY TRAGEDY AT LOCAL PIZZERIA.'

He clicks the link and scans through the article. By the time he's reached the second sentence, the interest has turned to horror.

No wonder Ms. Sanchez didn't want to talk about this. The Bite is genuinely sickening to contemplate. About fifteen years ago, one of the androids 'malfunctioned' during a birthday party and chomped down on the birthday boy's head. Which android is left unspecified, as is how the 'accident' was allowed to occur. The article doesn't go into much detail, but a few words and phrases jump out at him: 'hospitalization,' 'unstable,' 'recovery uncertain.' 

The victim isn't named, but his age is given. He was eight years old.

Mike swallows convulsively and pushes himself away from the computer. Then he scoots forward and hits the back arrow. Having banished the article from the screen, he draws his knees up to his chest and hugs himself, trying not to imagine what sort of damage would require the complete removal of the frontal lobe.

After he's recovered, Mike moves to a new terminal and opens a search engine. It's harder than it should be to find anything useful on the pizzeria. He doesn't doubt that it's intentional. Eventually, he manages to unearth an official website, so badly designed looking at it makes his eyes smart, and a few scattered reviews on various rating sites. The site boasts a garish banner, a cartoon Freddy logo with the same stoned smile as the one on the sign, and blatant advertisements for their pizza and 'isolated atmosphere.' Pictures of the androids are prominently featured, but the only one named is Freddy, and the text refers to them vaguely as 'the Fazbear Four.' Clicking the various navigation links reveals image after image of killer bear, killer rabbit, killer fox – the only one Mike hasn't seen in person yet – and killer yellow bird.

In every shot, they're smiling, but their eyes are never focused properly. Instead of looking at the camera, they're staring at the person holding it. This is, sadly, one of the only interesting things the site has to offer. The other is a 'Mascots' page, which contains buzzword-laden introductions to the four androids Mike already knows, and – underneath – four empty profiles. Instead of introductions, these have apologies.

_'The Toys are currently down for maintenance. Sorry for the disappointment. Come by and greet them when they make their homecoming, and make sure to bring a friend.'_

Looking up 'fazbear toys' just shows him line after line of merchandise. Mike regrets everything.

The reviews aren't much more informative, but they are a lot more telling. Plenty mention the service, but the word 'android' is never actually used. 'Mascot,' however, is tossed around like a basketball. 'Doll' and 'puppet' make a few appearances, too, as does 'animatronic,' used by a couple of posters who are evidently very confused. It's clear that none of the people writing perceived the androids as human, but they don't seem to have viewed them as dangerous, either – just a little creepy.

And that, to his surprise, seems to be the restaurant's main appeal. Apparently there is a thriving market for families who want to expose their kids to some supposedly low-grade spooks. Thank god Mike's parents never tried to do anything like that to him and Lissa.

Who is he kidding? His little sister would've eaten that atmosphere up with a spoon. Mike strokes the scarf, smiling softly. Then he forces himself to refocus. There's one more thing he wants to look at before he leaves.

Half an hour later, he's on the verge of tearing his hair out. He'd thought finding the reviews had been hard, and he'd been wrong. That had been mildly inconveniencing at most. Finding records of deaths and disappearances at Freddy's? Now, that's hard. He's being flooded by page after page of unhelpful results, few of which are even tangentially related to the pizzeria. The search picks up everything from random Facebook profiles to song lyrics. It's infuriating.

Finally, he gets a hit: a discussion posted on an image board with 'My brother disappeared at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza' as a title. With a certain degree of trepidation, Mike clicks on it.

The contents don't disappoint him.

_'My older brother answered an ad for a nighttime security guard at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. That was two weeks ago. I haven't seen him since. I've tried to get in contact with the company, but the manager won't talk to me, and none of the employees will admit to anything. What can I do?'_

_'Call the police,'_ reads the first comment.

 _'I did,'_ the OP had replied. _'They clammed up the moment I mentioned the restaurant's name.'_

The following comments are less helpful, and much less well-intentioned.

_'lol, what did you expect from the world's deadliest fast food franchise?'_

_'OP's brother is an idiot. A dead idiot.'_

_'freddy fazbear's pizza: thinning the gene pool since god knows when. don't brother asking anyone else about this, OP. ur bro's not coming back. no one who works the night shift at freddy's does.'_

Mike finds himself scowling at that last one. Typo aside, that is not how you break the news of a sibling's death to someone. It's a real shame you can't punch someone over the internet. He scrolls down, but nothing useful jumps at him, so he clicks out of the window and sits back, stretching. Prickles run down his legs as the blood starts flowing properly. How long has he been sitting here?

The answer is, of course, too long. He hauls himself upright, gathers his wits, and leaves the library.

He has an appointment to keep.

* * *

Freddy Fazbear's looks the same today as it did yesterday. No demonic laughter plays as Mike crunches through parking lot. No skeletons claw their way up through the tarmac. The worst that happens is a bitter chill, and that's pretty clearly the wind's fault. He looks up at the smiling logo, taking in its dull brown eyes and empty cheer, and shivers.

Inside is warmer. Inside is also busier. There's people – families – sitting on the benches, standing in the entryway, chattering to each other as they wait to be seated. Mike freezes, barely registering the automatic doors shut behind him.

Customers. A lot of them. With children. 

Singing, laughing, complaining, whining, tapping away at cell phones and staring out the window, a bare few metres from the room where he nearly died. He breathes in sharply, preparing to scream.

“Mommy, how much longer?” moans a little girl in pigtails. “I wanna see Freddy now!”

The warning dies on his tongue. He watches, numb, as the girl's mother assures her that they'll see Freddy very soon, she just has to wait a few more minutes. Finally, it occurs to him that he's still blocking the door; he moves aside, shuffling over to an empty corner.

After everything, he expected the pizzeria to be less... lively. This doesn't feel like a place where people have died. Might still die. Probably will die. Apparently, creepy robot restaurants have the same bustling atmosphere as non-creepy robot ones. Trying to avoid being caught staring at anyone, Mike's eyes land on the posters lining the walls.

_'Rules for Safety.'_

_'1: Don't run. 2: Don't yell. 3: Don't scream. 4: Don't poop on the floor. 5: Stay close to mom. 6: Don't touch Freddy. 7: Don't hit. 8: Leave before dark.'_

Useful. Especially the one about not pooping on the floor. Suddenly, he's very glad he never went to Freddy's as a kid. Killer androids are one thing. Crap on the floor? That's something else entirely. 

As for the others... well. It's not like there's anywhere Mike can run to in the security office, his mother's been dead for almost a decade, and it's literally his job to be here after dark. Yelling, screaming, and desperately trying to hit something made of metal are all things he did yesterday to absolutely no comment, right? Right. He should be good there.

He's mildly surprised to realize he hasn't touched Freddy yet. Two rules unbroken. Go him.

Just wait, tonight the bear will decide he wants in on the murder game, and Mike will be down to one.

A commotion in the crowd catches his attention. He lifts his head, peering out from under his bangs. There's something moving towards him.

Something big and purple and uncannily silent.

Cold settles around Mike's shoulders, biting through his jacket and coiling into his bones. This time, there's no wind to blame it on. He straightens up, keeping his face carefully neutral, and pretends his heart isn't hammering in his ears as Bonnie approaches. 

Under the warm, yellow lights, the android doesn't look so unnatural. The smooth curves of his cheekbones are highlighted, as is the soft swell of his lips. His skin, still much too white for anything living, brings to mind porcelain rather than a corpse's waxy complexion. The twitching ears, artful fall of his vibrant hair, and too-graceful movements seem more dreamlike than nightmarish. Even the glow of his eyes seems less threatening.

He inclines his head, lips curving in a welcoming smile that makes the hair on Mike's arms stand up. “Welcome to Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. Please follow me.”

Bonnie's voice is soft. Smooth. Rich. Even accompanied by the faint buzz of static marking it as the product of old-fashioned recording technology, Mike can't deny that it's gorgeous. Just like yesterday, it cuts neatly through the chatter surrounding it. The groups he gestures to stand up and gather their things – purses, electronics, jackets, etc – before heading over. A few of the kids run ahead. One of them, a boy who looks about eight, actually tugs at Bonnie's pant leg. 

Mike tenses, prepared to dive forward. And Bonnie... smiles.

It's not the fake one he was wearing a second ago. It's not the one he put on when he gave Mike a heart attack this morning. It's definitely not the one he wore when his hand was around Mike's throat.

But it's warm, and for a moment, Mike can almost see what those kids do.

He blinks. The android's expression is cool and plastic as he turns, long legs carrying him back into the building. The group follows in his wake.

The crowd settles back down, people going back to whatever they were doing before the android showed up. Mike sees a free spot on the bench and plops himself down. No point in killing his legs while he's waiting. He leans back, letting his head rest against the wall, and breathes out.

* * *

It takes about twenty minutes for Ms. Sanchez to arrive. Mike picks her clipped steps out of the tangle of noise and catches sight of her a moment later. She's in the hall, gesturing for him to come closer. He takes one last glance at the group of customers and hauls himself to his feet. Nobody tries to stop him or complain about the special treatment. In fact, nobody even looks up as he heads toward her.

The first words out of her mouth are, “You're early, Mike.”

He sighs. “You could at least pretend to be surprised.”

“I am. I thought...” She presses her lips together, eyes flicking back and forth warily. “Not here. My office.”

She turns on her heel and retreats down the hall. Mike tucks his hands gingerly into his pockets and follows.

Members of the day shift are dotted through the hallway – cleaning, running errands, helping customers, hiding from customers. They all have a habit of dropping whatever they're doing to gawk as he passes by. It was alarming at first – by the time he's halfway down the hall, it's just irritating. Mike can't quite stifle a relieved groan as Ms. Sanchez slows.

“You remember the office doors?” she asks quietly.

He nods. They were rather distinctive.

“Good. We're going to see them soon. If you think you're going to have a panic attack, tell me and we'll stop.”

How thorough. He nods again, stamping down on the part of him that finds her assumptions deeply offensive. He's not damaged. She knows that. She's just being careful.

Ahead of them, metal gleams in the fluorescent light. Mike's heart turns over in his chest as he reaches for a monitor that isn't there. What happened? Where did it fall? That thing is his lifeline, he needs to –

“Mike? Mike? Can you hear me?”

The ground is shaking. No – he's shaking. Mike wraps his arms around himself and squeezes, forcing his breathing under control. Only then does he look up.

“I'm fine.”

And he is. He just – had a bit of a flashback. He's allowed.

Ms. Sanchez doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't try calling him out or anything. She leads him to the office, slowly enough that he can stay in control of his frayed nerves, and takes out something that looks suspiciously like a garage door opener. The doors slide open when she pushes a button.

“Fancy,” Mike says, allowing her to usher him in.

She flinches. He feels a bit guilty for enjoying it.

As soon as the doors are shut, she begins to explain. “These doors work a bit differently from the ones in the security guard's offices. Their default is closed, and they're designed to resist forced entry. This is the only way to get them open.”

“Why are you the only one who has them?”

“Because when we tried to install them in the security office, the androids tore straight through them.” Her throat bobs as she swallows. “It seems they interpreted the greater safety precautions as 'cheating.'”

Mike glances over his shoulder, eyes wide. “I thought you said these doors were designed to resist forced entry!”

“They are,” she says heavily. “Which means they can hold up to a fifteen minute sustained assault, as opposed to a five minute one.”

“Five minutes? Really? Didn't seem that durable last night.” Chica'd been able to pry them open with one arm.

“I had a look at those doors after you left. They closed on a limb, didn't they?” Ms. Sanchez sighs at his slow nod. “Unfortunately, the mechanisms are a lot easier to force open if they aren't already locked in place. You got lucky, Mike.”

“Funny. I don't feel very lucky.” He takes one last look at the doors and turns back to her. “So, what does this job actually entail?”

“It's not actually that different from what I told you yesterday. It's still security work, and we're still paying you to keep an eye on the androids. There's just... some extra workplace hazards.”

“Which you forgot to tell me about.” 

Mike's pretty sure that's illegal. But then, so is everything else.

She wilts. “I am sorry. But I couldn't have told you, and you wouldn't have believed me.”

“I know. We already covered this. Just... tell me,” he pleads, “was last night typical? Is that what this job is like?”

Ms. Sanchez stares up at him, her eyes filled with weariness. “If I say yes, will you quit?”

“No,” he says quietly, and knows it's true.

“Then it doesn't matter.” He goes to reply, but she cuts him off before he can do more than open his mouth. “Mike Schmidt, if you don't quit now, you're going to die here. Maybe in a few years, maybe tonight, but it will happen. Everyone who works here is in danger, but the night shift – they're sacrifices. Offered up to keep the monsters sated for just a little bit longer, while the rest of us try and figure out if there even is a solution. I don't work the night shift, but I'm the one who hires them, gives them a laughably incompetent introduction to the job, and arranges for the disposal of what remains we can find.” There's a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch in her breath. “I'll be finding what's left of you soon enough. I don't want your last hours to be tainted with despair.”

That is, in and of itself, an answer. Which might have been the point. Mike decides not to comment on it, though. The air between them is awkward enough as is.

Fortunately, there's something else he can complain about.

“A few hours? Do you think I'm that badly off?”

She sniffs and gives him a dry look. “I did see you this morning. I know what your neck looks like under that scarf.”

Fair point. Still... 

“What's the average life expectancy for night guards?”

Ms. Sanchez refuses to meet his eyes. “Low.”

That's not encouraging. “How long have the others been at it?”

“Don't use them as measuring sticks,” she says hastily. “They're all crazy.”

“I knew that much.” He's not stupid.

“Fritz has been here about six months. I've been expecting to lose him ever since he got here, but the boy's stubborn.” A small, reluctant smile tugs at her lips. “Jeremy's approaching his second year. Him, I have cautious hopes for. Good instincts. And Scott – Scott's actually been here longer than me. I think he was about sixteen when he started, and he's past thirty now.”

Mike's mouth goes dry. “He said... he said he'd been working here twenty years.”

“That sounds right.” Ms. Sanchez nods, her smile fading. “He's a good man, and he's never been fond of death the way the rest of you are. I don't understand why he stays.”

'Fond of death?' What a classy to phrase it. Mike would honestly prefer she be upfront about taking advantage of their suicidal tendencies and self-destructive fascination with the inhuman harbingers of pain and death. But he supposes she's been upfront about enough already.

“Does it matter?” he says aloud.

“I suppose not.” She straightens up, businesslike again. “At any rate, Scott's about as close to a fixture as you get around here. He's usually in on his days off, and normally I'd pawn you off on him again, but you're early. I had you pegged for the type to drag his heels and deny everything until his feet carried him back just before midnight.”

Mike chuckles. He can't help it. This whole thing has been strangely disarming. Nothing like being candid about your odds of survival to bring people closer together.

* * *

**“He's here.”**

**“Who?”**

**“The guard. My guard.”**

**“Yer kiddin' me.”**

**“Bonnie, are you serious? ... huh. Lucky.”**

**“Hahahaha! Chica, darlin', he ain't lucky. Hard enough keepin' our hands offa Callahan when he comes in early. Poor Bon's gonna be sittin' on murderous rage all day.”**

**“Like I said, lucky. Plenty of time to plan. Hey, can you hear him from here?”**

**“Yes.”**

**“Me ears ain't as good as they used to be. What're ye pickin' up?”**

**“... nothing particularly important.”**

**“Aww. Fine, be that way. You joining us tonight, Foxy?”**

**"Ye know me, darlin'. Wouldn't miss it for the world.”**


	12. Chapter 12

The dining hall is full and bustling when Mike arrives. He lingers in the doorway, searching first for the exits, then for any sign of the androids. It doesn't take long to spot them. They're too big and too garishly coloured to go unnoticed for long. Freddy's on stage again, crooning softly into a mike. His singing voice doesn't seem to have the staticky buzz Bonnie's does. Newer recordings, maybe? A glimpse of the kitchen reveals Chica looming over the helpless cooks, and Bonnie is once again winding his way through the tables. Mike edges into the room before someone can call him out for blocking the entrance and walks briskly toward the security guards' table.

He can feel eyes on him, but none linger. After he slides into the seat, they disappear completely. And why wouldn't they? It's not like he's the only pale teen in the room. Of the customers he can see, family groups make up half at most. The rest are adults, either smiling or studiously ignoring their surroundings, and people his own age. Some of them are wearing too much make-up, others none at all. Most of them are watching the androids, tracking Bonnie's progress with wary eyes. Very few of them are smiling.

Buying into the atmosphere? Maybe. On the other hand, they might know something. Mike's weighing the risks of getting up to ask when one of them looks over at him and freezes. She jabs her finger into her neighbour's side and points directly at Mike.

“Holy shit, we got a live one!”

Mike flinches, pressing back against his chair. A fresh wave of pain settles around his abused neck, enough that his vision whites out. When he can see again, the girl in black is on her feet and halfway to his table.

Good of her to save him the effort, he thinks sourly. If he didn't hurt so much, his shoulders would be hunched up near his ears. He hates being gawked at.

“Hey, you with the scarf!” she calls, pushing through the last shreds of crowd. “You work here, right?”

“What gives you that impression?” he asks carefully.

She looks pointedly at the wall behind him. Mike swivels around gingerly and groans. The words 'staff only' form a very ironic halo above him.

“Fine,” he says. “What do you want?”

The girl looks around warily, then leans forward in a cloud of hairspray. He tries not to cough. 

“To ask some questions,” she hisses. “You know, about the pizzeria.”

Whoever she is, she's got no idea how to converse stealthily. Whispering just grabs attention.

“What's going on?” Mike replies in a normal, conversational volume. “Class project?”

“Something like that.”

So, no. Mike leans forward, eyes narrowed. “Were you looking to apply?”

Her grin is lined with cheap, greasy black lipstick. “Maybe.”

“Don't,” he says forcefully. The urgency of it takes him by surprise. “Turn around. Leave while you still can. If you don't –”

His mouth snaps shut on the words _you'll die._

“What?” the girl asks, eyes bright and inquisitive. “What'll happen if I don't?”

Mike's throat refuses to work. His jaw won't budge. He literally cannot tell her what will happen.

“Hey, guy, you okay? You look kinda sick.”

He feels kinda sick. Is this why Jeremy couldn't warn him off? Oh god, this adds a whole new dimension to how fucked up Freddy Fazbear's is.

“I'm fine,” he says instead, lifting a hand to rub at his throat.

He only remembers what a bad idea that is after he makes contact. As soft and fluffy as Lissa's scarf is, it still hurts like hell when pressure is applied. He can feel his eyes going wide and squeezes them shut instead, choking off a scream in favour of a low groan, filtered through his teeth.

“Yeah,” the girl scoffs. “You're totally fine.”

Mike does not flip her off. That would require too much movement, and is probably against company policy. He does, however, crack one eyes open just enough to glare. It's not her fault he can't talk, but she's here, bright eyed and all but vibrating with interest, while the fear and disbelief transmutes to rage in his gut.

“Why are you here?” he asks in a clipped tone.

“I told you, I want–”

“To ask some questions. Why? If you're not looking for a job–” His voice catches briefly, but nothing happens. He soldiers on. “–and you aren't here for school, you must be here for personal reasons. So, again, why?”

Has she lost someone to this place? Is she trying to unravel its mysteries? Does she want to find the madness that lurks beneath the crumbling exterior and put a stop to it, once and for all?

Or, he thinks, watching a guilty twitch run through her stick-like frame, is she just a vulture, staring down at the soon-to-be-dead with nothing but hunger?

She looks down at him, scowling fiercely. “I just want to know what it's like working at a haunted restaurant, that's all.”

Mike clenches his teeth. “I wouldn't know.”

“BS.” She leans over the table, the tips of her frizzy hair brushing his gloves. He can't feel the touch, but he flinches from it anyways. “Come on, new guy, talk to me.”

“I–”

_I can't._

“It's okay,” she coaxes. “I won't tell anyone. I just want to know.”

Mike finds his tongue again. “Stop. Please just leave me alone.”

She doesn't.

“It's the ghosts, isn't it? They threatened you or something. That's why you're all so scared to talk about it. But there's no point in sitting on it. You're gonna die anyways.”

Breathe, he thinks. Just keep breathing, slow and steady. She doesn't know what the hell she's talking about, but Mike's not a bully. He refuses to be one.

The table jolts as she kicks it. “Come on, you asshole! Just tell me already!”

His fingers are stiff and aching, but they can still make a fist.

“There you are, Mike,” someone says loudly. “I'm so sorry, I know you're off-duty, but could I ask you for a tiny favour?”

The girl lets out a surprised squeak, jerking her head towards the speaker. Mike does pretty much the same thing. Scott gives both of them a plastic smile and gently elbows her away from the table. She resists, of course, but Scott is roughly twice her size and has at least three times her muscle mass.

“What the hell?” she demands.

He glances at her, as if just registering her presence. “Oh, hello Sandra. Didn't see you there. Did you actually come to eat this time, or are you just hanging around to harass the staff again?”

She bristles like a cat. “If anyone's being harassed, it's me! Stop pushing.”

“Sure,” he says agreeably. “Mike, a little kid's wandered out of the dining room. Her mom says she's wearing a Foxy T-shirt and that Foxy is her favourite, so I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess she's heading for Pirate's Cove. Problem is, the Cove's been out of order for years, and it isn't safe to go back there. Could you take a look around?”

“Sure,” Mike echoes. He forces his fists to unclench. “I can do that. Where's Pirate's Cove?”

“Don't just ignore me!” the girl – Sandra – spits.

Scott points toward a short hallway leading out of the dining hall's far left corner. “In there. The kid's name is Carver, but she only answers to Cindy. Go fish her out. But don't peek behind the curtain, okay? Not safe.”

“Got it.” Mike levers himself up and walks briskly away, letting Sandra's protests be swallowed by the noise of the crowd.

The hall is marked by a sign – 'Out of order' – and blocked off by a length of rope. Mike ducks underneath, and then has to lean against the wall for a second before he can breathe again. His everything hurts.

“Fuck you, rabbit,” he whispers, and starts walking.

It's a pretty typical hallway. Checkered tile, creamy walls, lights that don't reach as far as they should. No sign of anyone inside. Mike swallows a sigh and continues down the corridor, keeping his eyes peeled.

“Cindy?” he calls, just in case the kid found somewhere to hide. “You in here?”

Silence, broken by a muffled clatter.

“Cindy?” he repeats.

Another clatter, followed by something that sounds like tiny running feet. Mike walks faster, heading for the far end. Someone's here.

The door at the end of the hall isn't really a door. It's a tarp, sliced down the middle and so rumpled it looks almost like a pair of drawn curtains. They're heavy on his bruises as he pushes through, the pressure wringing a pained hiss out of him.

Most of Pirate's Cove is concealed by another curtain, thick and white, made of the heavy-duty stuff they use to cover up construction work. Another 'out of order' sign hangs in front of it. There are lights, but they don't appear to be working terribly well; the whole room is shrouded in shadows. Part of one wall and a narrow strip of floor are visible. The checkered pattern is torn and peeling on both. A multitude of scoring peeks out from behind the fabric, gouged deep into the tile. Something, or someone, has scratched the room to hell.

A third clatter, loud and close enough that Mike freezes on instinct. Then a kid of around eight wanders into his field of vision. One look and he understands why Scott made the note about names. Cindy is thick and stocky, her hair buzzed short, her jawline already undeniably masculine. If Mike hadn't been warned, he'd have assumed she was a little boy. But he was, so the pink skirt tucked under an oversized shirt, marked with a surprisingly detailed image of the fox android he hasn't yet seen in person, doesn't come as a surprise.

“Hey,” he says, trying for a warm smile. “Cindy, right?”

She nods warily.

“My name's Mike. Your mom's worried about you.”

“Did she send you?” Cindy asks, edging a bit further from the curtain.

Mike shakes his head. “She talked to someone who works here, and he sent me.”

The kid perks right up. “Do you work here, then?”

“Yes. Not for very long, though – this is only my second day.”

“That's still awesome,” she informs him matter-of-factly. “Hey, do you know what's behind this?”

He follows her gaze to the curtain. “No. But if the sign says 'out of order', we probably shouldn't check.”

Cindy heaves a sigh, her small shoulders drooping theatrically. “That's what Foxy said when I asked him.”

Mike stiffens. “Foxy's here?”

“Yeah,” she says. “He was right behind me when you came in. I don't know where he is now, though. He's really fast.”

That doesn't sound good. “He, uh, found you first?”

“Yeah! He was waiting in the hall. I think he heard me coming. I asked him to take me to the Cove, so he did, but it's kinda boring. All the cool stuff must be under there.” She gives the curtain a wistful look.

Mike glances down at the scratches again and shudders. “I think we go back,” he says carefully. “Your mom is probably waiting.”

The little girl sighs again. “Mom's paranoid. She thinks someone's going to beat me up because I like to wear skirts.”

He has no idea what to say to that. _Sorry, kid, but there's a lot of lunatics out there who would do just that?_ That sounds like a good way to scar a child for life. So he smiles again, hoping it looks less awkward than it feels, and motions toward the hall.

“Follow me?”

She acquiesces with a nod, going up to him without hesitation. Her innocence is honestly unbelievable. In her position, Mike sincerely doubts he'd have done the same. Maybe he's wrong, though, and this is just a normal kid thing – trusting adults who claim to be sent by your parents. He doesn't know enough to say for sure.

A tiny brown hand brushes his. He blinks, looking at it in confusion. Cindy, undeterred by his lack of reaction, wraps her fingers around his hand.

“Come on,” she says.

Mike swallows hard. “Okay.”

It's been a long time since someone held his hand.

She smiles up at him, and for a moment, everything is fine. Then her eyes slide past him and widen.

“Foxy!” she chirps, taking a step forward. “I made a new friend. His name is Mike. He says he works here, too. Do you two know each other?”

Mike turns around, placing himself in front of her. There's something in the doorway.

No. Someone.

Foxy is almost as tall as Freddy, but where the bear is solid, he's stretched-out and rangy. His hair is a bright, artificial crimson, cut unevenly. Some locks are just long enough to drop into his face; others reach his waist and keep going. The equally red ears that poke out of the mess are notched and twitching, moving in time with the bushy, dust-covered tail that lashes back forth behind him. An ornate red coat that's seen better days is flung over his shoulders, the ragged ends swirling around his calves. The shirt beneath it is so torn it barely qualifies as clothing. Foxy's chest is clearly visible, as are his well-defined abs. The result would be disconcertingly sexual for a children's mascot, but muscles are only appealing when covered with skin – and Foxy's skin is in tatters.

Half his torso is exposed metal; Mike can see how the plates grind and overlap when the android shifts his weight. Foxy's right hand is a wicked-looking hook, and his right eye is covered by a black eyepatch. A thick tear in the skin directly under the patch leads Mike to suspect the eye is gone entirely. Its match is yellow, full of malice and glowing like a floodlight.

The other androids are inhuman and impossible in their beauty. Foxy is a twitching, shuddering ruin with madness gleaming in his remaining eye. He sways on his feet, off-kilter and predatory, a nightmare preparing to pounce. Mike is faintly aware that he's begun to tremble, his hand tightening around Cindy's.

“Run,” he whispers.

He realizes how stupid the words are as soon as they leave his mouth. Where would she run to? Foxy's between them and the exit. Maybe she could hide –

Cindy scurries out from behind him and trots toward the android, a trusting smile on her face. Her hand is still tight around his.

She tosses a glance over her shoulder. “Are you scared? It's okay, Mike. Foxy is a nice pirate.”

Foxy grins, a feral expression that bares too many oily, glistening teeth. “Ye shouldn't be back here, landlubbers! Let Foxy escort ye back to the dining hall.”

His voice is full of static, so distorted Mike can barely untangle the words. By then, Foxy's crouching, his hand stretched out toward the kid. Inch-long claws poke through his black glove.

She has no idea what's coming.

“No.” The voice sounds like it's coming from a long way away. It takes Mike a second to recognize it as his own. “Not again.”

He pulls her back, throwing himself between her and the monster. With a mechanical screech, Foxy leaps at them.

* * *

**"Hey, Foxy - aw, heck. Bonnie, do you know where Foxy got off to?"**

**"Yes."**

**"He likely to come back any time soon?"**

**"Yes."**

**"What, really?"**

**"I'm going to get him now."**

**"You're a peach - annnnd he's gone. What lit a fire under his cottontail?"**

_"Chica, darling, dearest, best friend - there's some things we're better off not knowing."_

**"Fair point, Carl."**

_"...I'll stick with you all night if he doesn't come back sporting bloodstained gloves."_

**"Sucker bet. No deal."**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late! Have a cliffhanger as an apology.


	13. Chapter 13

The pain, when it comes, is so much less than he expects. Mike is all braced for broken bones and deep tissue damage, both of which he has experience with, and entertaining fantasies of outright dismemberment. Though disemboweling might be more likely, given those wicked claws. What he gets is a line of fire across his shoulder before everything stops.

Well. Foxy stops. And given Mike's position – mostly underneath Foxy, mostly in front of Cindy – that does kinda feel like 'everything.' The android tilts his head, eyes open impossibly wide, and peers down at his trapped... prey? Victim? Toy? Slowly, Foxy removes the hand on Mike's upper arm, but his eye remains fixed on marked flesh. And mangled sleeve, probably. Good thing this isn't a uniform. A wrecked T-shirt can just be re-purposed as a rag with no consequences, but he'd have to dip into his meager savings for a replacement dress shirt.

His wound burns, but Mike stays quiet. He doesn't make a sound as gloved hands reach down and trace the edges of his scarf. Foxy examines the knitted fabric with an odd intensity, staring at it as if it contains the secrets of the universe. Then he blinks his flashlight eye and breaks into a broad grin.

“Ye shouldn't be back here, landlubbers! Let Foxy escort ye back to the dining hall.” The android lets out a distorted crackle of canned laughter.

It's so unexpected that Mike can't form a response. He gapes up at Foxy, the pain pushed out of his mind by sheer confusion. What even?

A small hand touches his shoulder, over the gash. “Mike?”

He goes stiff.

“Mike, it's okay.” Her hand is still on his shoulder. It's so small. The pressure barely even registers. “Don't be afraid. Foxy's big and kind of pointy, but there are loads scarier things than him.”

A laugh bubbles up in his chest. He swallows it.

“Yeah,” he rasps, unable to look away from the android's burning gaze. “Loads.”

Cindy gives him one final pat and wriggles out from beneath him, dusting off her skirt with utmost concentration. She doesn't seem to notice the blood on her fingers. The smears they leave on the fabric, though...

“What's this?”

Those, she notices.

Foxy shoots to his feet in a single fluid motion. A blink later, he's kneeling in front of Cindy, one clawed finger hovering in front of the largest stain.

“That don't look good,” he mutters, the words barely distinguishable from the static. “Cap'n Foxy's no use at this kinda stuff. Let 'im get get someone who is.”

A shadow moves. Mike jerks his head back to the door, heart in his mouth.

_Oh,_ he thinks stupidly, _hello, Bonnie._

One long purple ear twitches, and he realizes he said it aloud. Mike snaps his mouth shut and scrambles back, away from the rabbit and toward the fox. Counter-intuitive, but Foxy has already decided to not murder him today, while Bonnie has made a hobby out of invading his space in a subtly threatening manner. It's kind of a no-brainer.

The hellbunny doesn't pay him any further mind, though, gliding past him with that too-smooth, noiseless gait and approaching Cindy instead. She lets him take her hand. He holds it like a gentleman, carefully spreading the fingers so he can examine it. His eyes are warm.

“Just a scratch,” he says finally, so soft it's nearly a purr.

Cindy looks down at her hand and does a double take.

“Must've banged yerself up,” Foxy contributes with a hangdog expression. He pauses, still twitching irregularly, and begins a sentence clearly spliced together from separate scripts. “Pirate's Cove be off limits – fer a reason.”

“It's okay,” she says. “Doesn't hurt. See?”

She holds up her tiny hand, wet with Mike's blood, and smiles. Mike reaches up, slowly, and touches his fingers to the gash on his arm. The pain is immediate. He chokes on a hiss and does his best to curl into a ball, as if that would make the hurting stop. There's a soft rustle of fabric as Cindy turns to look at him. What caught her attention: the sound or the bleeding?

“Mike? Are you okay?”

The sound, then.

“I'm fine,” he says, forcing a smile onto his face.

He leaves his fingers where they are. No way of knowing how bad the cut is without looking at it, and he's not taking his eyes off the androids if he can help it. Even if they do make a picturesque tableau, bowing their heads to the child.

Cindy – what he can see of her from the corner of his eye, anyway – looks relieved. “I'm gonna go back out. Mom's waiting for me,” she says, tugging at Foxy's tattered coat. “That's why Mike came back here. To tell me so.”

Foxy gives her a mechanical nod. “Let Cap'n Foxy escort ya out, lassie.”

She smiles at him. He beams back. Neither of them acknowledge the layer of black fluid coating his fangs. Bonnie rises smoothly to his feet and gestures silently toward the door. The killer robot takes her hand in his and pads toward the exit, tail wagging excitedly. Her fingers are so small. So delicate. Foxy could snap them in a second, but he cradles them instead.

The marks around Mike's throat start to ache. He could say something. Do something. Instead, he stays quiet and focuses of trying to get his breathing straightened out. Seems like he's the only one in danger here.

Foxy pauses for an instant as he passes in front of Mike's crumpled form. “Stay here fer a bit, laddie,” he advises, grinning from ear to ear. “Bon wants a word with ye.”

Mike gives him a tight little nod. “Thanks.”

How lovely of the unknown designer to include that phrase in Foxy's lexicon. Not like Mike's going anywhere soon, anyways.

One golden eye bores into him, less like a dagger and more like a power tool. Then Cindy tugs their joined hands and Foxy is moving again, chattering a mile a minute in that ridiculous accent. Canned phrases, repeating, most of them featuring the words 'lassie' and 'landlubbers.' Static weaves neatly into the words, rendering them increasingly incomprehensible. Mike follows their progress, heart in his throat, but the android makes no move to hurt her. By all appearances, Cindy really is safe with him.

Finally, he stops craning his neck to keep them in sight and lets his eyes flutter shut momentarily. It's a bad idea. A gloved hand brushes his cheek. Mike jerks back, cracking his head against the wall behind him. For a second, he sees nothing but stars. When his vision clears, Bonnie is looming over him, expressionless.

His skin feels damp where the android touched him. He tears his gaze away from Bonnie's face and searches for those hands. To his surprise, they're resting at Bonnie's sides.

The gloves aren't white anymore.

Slowly, one hand rises. A finger presses to white lips. The meaning is clear: _shhhh._

Mike's whimpering quietly. He hadn't even realized he was making a sound. He shudders and forces himself to stop, breathing deeper and deeper until the panic dies down to manageable levels. He's calm. He's calm. He's okay.

He is going to die.

He is also still bleeding, and if he isn't going to be killed in the next few seconds, he should probably do something about it.

Seconds pass. Bonnie lowers his eyes to Mike's arm, pursing his lips slightly. It's strangely adorable.

Mike hauls himself up in stages. First, he has to let go of the wound, which he does reluctantly. His palm is wet, and it leaves a near-perfect handprint when he presses against the floor. He levers himself up into a sitting position, drawing his legs in when he has his balance back. Bonnie is entirely too close through the entire process – the android may actually have been straddling him for a second there. He makes no move to close the distance, though, for which Mike is pathetically grateful. The back of his head is still throbbing.

Only once he's scrunched up against the wall does Bonnie step forward. Mike goes rigid as white gloves come toward him, but there's no approaching his throat this time. Instead, they take his arm with the same care the android showed Cindy, gently extending the limb. Mike stays very still, trying not to hyperventilate, and keeps his eyes on Bonnie's face. The android really is beautiful. Thick purple lashes framing crimson eyes, a soft mouth, the kind of cheekbones that should take hours of dedicated make-up work to bring out, all meticulously added to a mechanical monster. Even if Bonnie wasn't a killer, it would be a waste. What kind of lunatic designs childrens' mascots to be so breathtaking?

“Someone must have been very passionate when designing you.”

The fingers around his bicep freeze in place. Slowly, Bonnie looks up, his expression unreadable. His eyes are impossibly deep, and impossibly cold. Mike swallows, uncomfortably aware of his throat bobbing up and down. He said that out loud, didn't he. Oh god, why does he do this to himself.

“Your eyes,” he says, because he is actually suicidal. “They're pretty.”

Bonnie stares at him for a long moment, looking deep into his soul with those pretty red eyes. Then he blinks and turns back to the cut. Mike follows suit. The gash actually isn't that bad – it's bled a lot, meaning that this jacket is probably a lost cause, but it's shallow. Won't even need stitches, if he's lucky. He can take care of this himself. But when he tries to take his arm back, Bonnie won't let him. He holds the limb still with one big hand, removing what's left of the sleeve, and produces a tube of disinfectant seemingly from thin air. Mike hisses as the fluid touches him, but it's just a saline solution. No risk of tissue damage. Then there's suddenly gauze, and he finds himself watching in shock as those lethal fingers dance across his skin, pressing the cotton into place. Next comes tape, applied with the same speed and precision, and then the hands are gone.

The android isn't, though. In fact, he's closer than ever, giving Mike's ruined sleeve a look of subdued disgust.

“Jacket,” he murmurs, crooking his fingers impatiently. When Mike fails to respond, his mouth tilts downward, and he reaches forward again.

Mike presses back against the wall without thinking. The pain hits like a freight train, and suddenly it's all he can do to keep breathing. When he can see through his watering eyes, Bonnie hasn't moved. He's exactly where he was, hand still outstretched, still focused on the offending sleeve.

“Jacket,” he repeats in the same soft, almost non-threatening tone he must use to request soiled items from children.

“Here.” Mike can't get the damn thing off fast enough.

Bonnie takes it and folds it so the bloodstains are inward, letting it hang over his bloodied hands. “You'll get this back tomorrow morning.”

_If you survive,_ he pointedly doesn't add.

Goosebumps break out across Mike's exposed skin. He finds himself shivering, the concrete leeching what heat remains. As the android turns to leave, he scoots forward ever so slightly.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

Bonnie stops, facing away. His ears swivel around instead, tilting toward the sound just like a real rabbit's.

“Thanks,” Mike says again, louder this time. “You didn't have to.”

Slowly, the android turns, his perfect face in profile. “I did,” he says, still soft, still gentle. But this is no pre-recorded message. “You won't die at Foxy's hands, Mike Schmidt. I'll be the one who kills you.”

* * *

**"There you are, Foxy. What's up?"**

**"Not much, luv. Kiddie wanted a tour of the old place, but there ain't much ta see."**

**"And you clawed open a ketchup bottle while you were there?"**

**"Ha! Naw, this be from the new guard. The little one."**

**"You kill him? Bonnie'll be mad if you did - Foxy, what's wrong?"**

**"... s' stupid."**

**"Not if it makes you upset."**

**"Just thought that he was a kid once. All of 'em were. What went wrong, Chica?"**

**"I wish I knew."**


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: panic attack, character coping very poorly with the fact that he had a panic attack. Mike is not a good model for coping with trauma. Do not copy his 'make yourself feel bad for being hurt' technique. It doesn't work for him and it won't work for you.

After having that little bomb dropped on him, Mike takes a few seconds to get hold of himself before he tries getting up. A few seconds soon becomes a few minutes. Finally, after what he estimates is probably at least the fifteen minute mark, he gets his feet underneath him and levers himself up, using the wall for support. His thoughts are scattered and his head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton, but the pain is manageable as long as he doesn't move his arm, so that's good. He scans the floor for any tell-tale stains and finds none. The only trace of what happened here is the pain. And the bandage.

He stumbles his way toward the curtain, then through it. The world is, once again, agonizingly bright. Mike squeezes his eyes shut, forces his back straight, and takes a few more steps before running into the world's most apologetic wall.

If the impact doesn't quite knock the breath out of him, Scott's frantic babble definitely does. “Mike, I'm so sorry! I thought Foxy was on kitchen duty! If I'd known he was in the Cove, I wouldn't have sent you back there.”

A wheeze is all Mike can manage in response. It conveys nothing but how much his lungs would like to go on strike. A second later, Scott's arm is being laid gently around his shoulders and he's being led back to the staff table. The girl from before is nowhere to be seen, so Mike lets it happen. The man even pulls out a chair for him. Best coworker, right here, not that it's much of a competition.

Scott's smile is gone. His face looks weird without it. “What happened to your jacket?”

“Bonnie took it.” That may not have been the smartest way to start this interrogation. “After Foxy...” What? Tried to kill him, stopped halfway through, and proceeded to completely ignore him? “Got distracted.”

The senior night guard whistles softly, raking a hand through his messy bangs. “S-seriously? You've got some luck, kid. Not the, uh, android stealing your clothes thing. That sounds like it sucks, actually. The whole Foxy not killing you thing. That part was lucky.”

“Yeah,” Mike agrees. “Has this happened before?”

“Androids stealing clothing? Once or twice. Usually it's something a kid wants them to hold on to, but there was this one time back in–”

As entertaining as this anecdote promises to be, Mike has to cut in. “I meant Foxy targeting someone during the day.”

“Ah.” Scott wilts like a cut flower. “Um. A few times? He usually sticks to the rules, but sometimes he has bad days.”

“Bad days,” Mike echoes.

“Yeah. Days when even the other androids walk carefully around him.” Brown eyes roam around the room, searching for a flash of red. Scott looks almost disappointed to find nothing. Foxy is gone. “It's really too bad. On his good days, Foxy's a real pleasure to work with, even for us. Don't tell anyone, but he's my favourite. Always has been, since I was a little kid. But sometimes...” He shudders expressively.

Mike remembers clawed fingers twitching and flexing randomly, a grin dripping with black oil, and is hard pressed not to follow suit. “There's something wrong with him, isn't there?”

“Something wrong with all of them.” Scott puts his elbows on the table and morosely props up his chin. “They didn't used to be like this.”

“Yeah, but there's something wrong with Foxy specifically,” Mike says slowly. “None of the others twitch like that. And they're all...” Sporting skin and clothing that doesn't look like someone tried to rip it off their bodies. “Intact.”

“'Intact,' huh? That's one way to put it.” A quick little smile, barely more than a twitch of the lips. “You're wrong about the twitching. They all do it. It's a sign they're about to get dangerous.”

Last night wasn't dangerous? Mike's disbelief must be showing, because Scott plasters his fake grin back on and lets out an equally fake laugh. He's clearly aiming for comforting. Maybe someone less perceptive would fall for it.

“What are you implying?”

“Aside from the whole last minute strangulation thing, last night was a pretty good night for everyone!” Scott chirps. There's really no other word for such a relentlessly chipper tone. “I checked the security cams this morning. Freddy stayed in the back with N, Foxy didn't peek his head out of the Cove, the Marionette laid low, and the two most regular terrors – that's, uh, Chica and Bonnie – were mostly just playing around. Jeremy had it a bit rougher, with the Mangle and the Balloon kids on his case all night, but still, nothing he couldn't handle. In short, you got lucky. Not that there's anything wrong with that,” he adds hastily, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Luck is ninety percent of why I've survived this long. But, uh, if you see the other androids doing the twitchy, got-a-jumper-cable-up-my-ass thing... you're probably screwed.”

Mike recognizes maybe half those names. If he's serious about giving them all another shot at killing him, he should probably fix that.

“Who?”

“Ah, sorry. I only told you about the Fazbear Four yesterday, right? I'd have gone into more detail, but the others...” Scott's grin grows even more artificial, if possible. “You wouldn't have believed me.”

“It's that bad?”

“Worse.” Scott gives him a quick once-over, appears to find the results acceptable, and begins drumming his fingers on the table in a display of nervous of energy. The noise stabs into Mike's brain like knives, but he doesn't have the energy to protest. “N and the Mangle are probably the easiest to wrap your head around, so let's start there. If you stripped the skin off Freddy, dressed him in chains and a garbage bag, and removed his ability to vocalize or display expressions, N is what you would get. He spends all his time in the back. Doesn't have a day job because he's never outside during the day. He's huge and clumsy and deeply unsettling, but he's also the only android that's never been hostile to anyone, ever. I don't think he's part of whatever game they have going on, and I'm not sure he understands the rules, but everything changes when he appears at night.”

“That doesn't sound like it bodes well.”

Scott laughs. “You'd be surprised! N likes to wander up to the offices and hang out in the doorway, or in front of the vents. None of the others will try to stop him and he's big enough to block their paths, so if he's in the office you'll have at least one exit you can safely ignore. He's not the best company, what with the, uh, eerie silence and creepy white eyes, but he's a good listener. You can tell him anything!”

In other words, Mike isn't the only one who loses it and starts talking to the androids as the night wears on. Good to hear. Just one more question before he lets Scott move on.

“What kind of animal is he?”

The older man looks confused, and then thoughtful. “You know, I'm not entirely sure. He's got little metal ears – they even wiggle sometimes, when he's happy – but he doesn't have a tail. Maybe he's a deer? It's hard to tell with the unfinished ones.”

“Unfinished ones?” Mike echoes, trying not to show his alarm.

“Yeah,” Scott says absently. Or rather, pretends to say absently – his eyes are too sharp to be as distracted as he seems. “N, the Mangle, some of the others when they get damaged... it's difficult to tell what they're supposed to be. The Mangle's a bit easier, since they've got a tail, but N... yeah, he's a tricky one.”

Mike knows what avoiding the subject looks like when he sees it. Not getting anything more out of this angle, so he changes tactics. “Who's the Mangle?”

The grin slips away entirely, leaving Scott as serious as Mike's ever seen him. “What's the Mangle. The 'what' is very important, because I genuinely have no idea what the Mangle is supposed to be or who okayed it. What I do know is this – the Mangle is one of the Toy Androids and the only one currently active, officially because they don't need reformatting like the others, unofficially because it's impossible to catch the foxy bastard.”

So this is one of the mascots with empty profiles on the website. Mike's already unnerved. Scott's choice of adjective doesn't help matters.

“I don't think I understand what the Toys are?”

“They're basically the worst idea anyone has ever had, given form.”

Mike stares. “That seems... extreme.”

“Trust me,” Scott growls, “it's not. You'll understand when they're reactivated, as they always are, once Af – their creator convinces everyone he's finally worked all the kinks out.” Another too-sharp look, followed by a bitten-off sigh. “Sorry, the Toys are kind of a sore subject for everyone who remembers how they came about.”

It's an obvious lead, probably dropped to distract Mike from pursuing that name. Mike is going to take it, and he kind of hates himself for doing so. If not one, but two people he met literally less than twenty-four hours ago can manipulate him this easily, maybe he really is predictable.

“How did they come about?”

“They were supposed to fix everything!” Scott says it with enough force that Mike flinches back. He grimaces apologetically, but doesn't stop his tirade. “Some genius had it all worked out – the androids wouldn't listen to humans when we tried to get them to stop and explain themselves, so we just had to, uh, build new androids! They'd talk to the Fazbear Four, we'd get things sorted out, no one else would have to die. Sounds all nice and tidy, doesn't it? It's not! The whole thing was a mistake! Those plastic monsters should never have been made!”

Scott falls quiet for a second, waiting for a reply, but Mike's in no shape to give one. He's pressed against the back of his chair, heart in his throat, trying to present as small a target as possible. His fingers are white around the edge of the table, his breath coming fast and shallow.

He's not having a panic attack. Definitely not.

“Shit. Mike?”

He's fine. He just needs to stay very still until the noise stops.

“Mike, can you hear me?”

He's fine. He's fine. He's fine.

“Mike.” Now Scott's talking so quietly he's all but whispering. “Mike, I didn't mean to scare you. I screwed up again, didn't I? Always seem to find a way...” A soft chuckle. “Everyone's got weak spots, and I've got a talent for trampling all over them. I made Jeremy cry the first time I met him, you know? Pam, too. Fritz didn't cry, but he did punch me. Would've broken my nose if I hadn't dodged, and I'd have deserved it, one hundred percent. Swear to god, I'm the most insensitive asshole sometimes, I don't mean to do it, but it happens anyways. Are you okay, Mike?”

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“I'm fine.” It comes out rougher than Mike would like, all thin and reedy. “Just don't yell at me?”

It sounds plaintive, a little kid begging an adult not to be so rough with him. Mike wants to hit himself the second the words are out of his mouth. But Scott is nodding, all his passion and fervor wrapped up in smiling plastic again, and the relief Mike feels is sickening.

Weak. He's still so weak.

“I can do that,” Scott is saying. “Jeremy doesn't do too well with raised voices, either. You scared him a bit this morning, if you can believe it.”

The sad thing is, Mike can believe it. Can see himself sharing this streak of helpless cowardice with the tall, handsome blond. It would certainly explain a few things about the similarity of their reactions – they're afraid of some of the same things. Jeremy wears that fear better, though. On him, it looks like actual trauma. Not...

Shut up and keep moving, Mike. The world isn't going to wait until you 'feel better.'

“I'm fine,” he repeats with more force. “You were saying?”

Scott gives him a searching look, but whatever he's looking for, he doesn't find it. “Alright then. Toys. Toys Toys Toys... they're basically the worst thing ever. I told you that, right?”

Mike nods, something tight and hard in his gut unclenching at Scott's lack of resistance. “Yeah. You got that far.”

“And I told you the idea behind them?”

“Yes.” Another pause until Mike rolls his eyes and resigns himself to playing parrot. “Some idiot decided the best way to deal with homicidal robots was to build more robots. It didn't go well.”

“Not at all,” Scott agrees. “See, the Toys aren't built the same way as the Fazbear Four. Whatever technology – or black magic, I suppose – keeps Freddy, Foxy, Bonnie, and Chica up and running no matter what they put themselves through, the Toys don't have it. And they know it, which is probably why the little bastards turned on us.”

“Turned on us?” Mike echoes, feeling cold. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. A few days after they were switched on, the four Toy Androids – Fred, Blue, Chii, and the Mangle – decided to join in the hunt. Only, they made this decision during the day shift, while there were a bunch of customers in the restaurant, and they didn't make a distinction between employees and innocent bystanders.” Scott squeezes his eyes shut. “There were... a lot of casualties.”

Mike tastes bile. “What happened?”

“The main four took them out. With extreme prejudice. Three of the toys, we were able to collect after they were rendered inoperable. The fourth escaped into the ventilation system, barely functioning. There was an attempt to bring in the Fazbear Four, but it worked about as well as it always does.”

“Freddy, Foxy, Bonnie, and Chica... protected people from them?”

It makes a lot more sense than it should. Even if they hate Mike, Bonnie and Foxy clearly love children. That they'd rip apart anything that threatened their beloved customers seems right, somehow. A lump forms in his throat. What would it be like, to be loved so fiercely?

“Yeah,” Scott says. “They did. They've done it every time the Toys have gone off the rails.”

“Which is often?”

“You have no idea.”

Mike's not sure he wants to get one.

“So, the Mangle?”

“Spends almost all their time in the vents. Neither the Fazbear Four nor the Toys like them very much, and the others will sometimes go out of their way to pick on the Mangle if they're caught outside. As long as you're in the office with the tiny vents, you should be okay – the Mangle can't fit through them, so the worst you'll get is some spooky noises. Maybe you'll overhear them babbling to themself. In the other office, though...” Scott shudders again. “At any rate, the Mangle looks more or less like a white version of Foxy, except with clown make-up and the endoskeleton half-exposed. All the Toys have clown make-up. I think it was to make them seem less threatening. Didn't work.”

That does sound like a terrible decision, but Mike's stuck on something else. “Babbling to themself? The Mangle can talk?”

A note of aggravation returns to Scott's voice, buried deep but still clearly present. “All the Toys can. They never shut up if they can help it. Doesn't mean they make sense.”

And they still hunt humans anyway. Well, it's not as if being able to communicate keeps humans from hurting each other.

“The others. What are they?”

“I couldn't tell you what they are.” The senior guard sounds sheepish. “The Marionette looks a bit like a stretched-out goth mime with claws and a porcelain mask. He showed up a few decades back. Nobody could figure where he came from or how he got here, but he hung out in the Cove with Foxy and put on puppet shows for the kids. Shadow puppets, mostly, but he was a real wizard with strings, too. I'll admit I didn't like him much back then, but that was just 'cause he was creepy. Utterly silent and prone to melting into the floor if you looked at him for too long, but by the time I started working here, we'd all gotten used to him.”

Melting? Mike's jaw falls open, prompting a fresh wave of pain from the skin around his neck. “He's not an android?”

Scott shakes his head.

“Then what...?”

A shrug. “My best guess is that he's a nightmare. Some kind of boogeyman that crawled out of the closet and decided it preferred kids' laughter to their tears. But he wasn't much of a talker when the Cove was open, and he's only gotten worse since then.”

Mike's thoughts jump back to deep scores in concrete, peeking out from behind thick curtain. “The Cove. What happened to it?”

“I don't know,” Scott says with the same false airheadedness. A lie, then. “The Marionette doesn't spend his time there anymore. He doesn't go anywhere. Just stays in a box near the prize corner, thinking. Some nights he doesn't come out. Other nights, you'll find him propped up against the wall near his box, staring at the cameras. If he's doing that, it's a good idea to wind up the music box in the office.”

Mike fidgets with the bottom of his scarf. “I didn't see a music box last night.”

“Really? Shit. One of the androids might have moved it. They like to do stuff that makes things harder for us. I'll check things this evening.”

He can't help but perk up a little. “You're on tonight?”

“Yup!” Scott's grin is blinding. “Jeremy's been on two days in a row, and now that we have the personnel I'd like to try and avoid that. Raises the odds of us all, uh, making it. Which reminds me, I talked with Pam, and you've got tomorrow off if you want it. Some motivation to make it through the night.”

The sheer gall of it drags a snicker out of Mike. “How blunt.”

Scott chuckles back. “I don't believe in padding the truth. If I can tell you something, I'll tell it to you straight.”

“And if you can't tell me?” Mike probes, rubbing carefully at his bruised throat. “What then?”

“It depends,” the older man says simply. “On whether I think it's something you need to know or not.”

Blunt honesty deserves blunt honesty. Anyways, it's not like holding back will benefit Mike here. 

“If there's information you're sitting on, you should share it. We're all in the same boat here, aren't we?”

A sigh. By all appearances, heartfelt. “I'm being honest about as much as I can, Mike. But some things don't help anyone. All they do is keep you up at night, wondering how many things had to go horribly wrong to lead you to this point. You can't do anything about them. They're just there, hanging over you, an invisible sword of Damocles.”

Mike genuinely has no idea what Scott's talking about. Sue him, he dropped out of school at sixteen. He gets the gist of it.

“I get it. You think you're protecting us. But Scott? We're already doomed.”

His piece said, Mike leans back in his chair, wincing as he jars his wound. A sudden clatter of sound grabs his attention, and he turns his head just in time to see three androids take their places on the show stage. Bonnie's changed his gloves; they're white again. Everyone else in the dining hall turns to look at them, a cheer rising as the band launches into their first song. Mike watches for a few seconds before he speaks again, quietly.

“While they're distracted, tell me. What happened back there with Sandra? Why couldn't I say anything?”

A wretched sound. When he glances back, he catches a flicker of agony in Scott's brown eyes before it's all locked away.

“You signed a contract when you started working with us, Mike. It was written in ink, not blood, but it might as well have been.”

“What are you saying?”

“Dig it up if you can find it – it's not easy to get a copy – and memorize it.” Scott's voice is quiet and earnest, no trace of false cheer to be found. “You're bound by it now.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays! Have a slightly belated update~

Mike doesn't have the contract on him. He thinks he knows where it is, tucked away in one of the few places he trusts it to stay concealed from Aunt Sharon's unpredictable searches of his belongings, but that knowledge doesn't make him feel any better.

“The others. Are they –”

A grim nod. “Yeah. We all are. The day shift get a less stringent contract. Most of them never even, uh, realize it. They don't have access to the same level of, er, sensitive information we do.”

“What about the rest?” he asks, brain working furiously. “Pamela? Her bosses?”

“Pam, yes. The rest... I couldn't tell you.”

Mike frowns. “You don't know?”

Scott lets out a soft sigh. “There's a lot of things about this place I wish I knew.”

“Pamela said you've been working here longer than she has.”

“I have? Really?” An artificial chuckle. “Time does fly when you're having fun. Or, uh, clutching onto a piece of electronic equipment for dear life, I guess. Yeah, I've been here a while. Got hired with a few other teens a couple decades back when management was trying to get more youths involved – cheer the mascots up, give them some friendly faces, you know?”

The dates match up with what Mike was told. The rest...

“Lemme guess. Didn't turn out well.”

“Actually, it went great,” Scott says. “For a while, anyway. Then... some things happened, and the androids started going haywire. Some of my coworkers thought it might, uh, be a mechanical issue. Tried to open 'em up and fix it.” A shudder runs through him. “That part didn't turn out well.”

Mike can imagine how. In vivid technicolour.

“What happened?” he asks, ice trickling down his spine. “N-not to your coworkers. You implied something was going on at the same time. Was this the Bite?”

As soon as he says it, he knows it's wrong. The Bite happened twelve years ago. Scott got the job around eight years prior. Whatever was going down in Scott's first few years, it was something else. He's expecting to be corrected, or deflected, or ignored. He's not expecting to be shushed with a curious urgency.

“We try not to talk about that inside these walls. The Fazbear Four don't like it.”

Mike gestures back to the stage, irritated. “They're not listening.”

Scott's smile is beginning to look a little strained. “Bonnie's always listening.”

“What are you talking about?”

“See those ears?” Scott lifts his fingers up to the side of his head and folds them, like a pair of bunny ears. “They ain't for show. Bonnie can hear people talking on the other side of the building.”

Mike swivels in his seat, trying to pick out the purple rabbit. It's harder than it should be, given how tall Bonnie is. For all his bright colouring, he and his guitar seem to fade into the background compared to Freddy's voice and Chica's tambourine. When Mike manages to focus on him, he looks... subdued. Oh, he's smiling, but it's about as genuine as one of Scott's, and his eyes are just staring off into space.

Until the android looks directly at him, anyway.

“He can hear us.”

“Yeah.”

“And you've all still been talking here?” Mike's voice cracks embarrassingly.

Scott laughs nervously. “Well, I mean, we could hide, but... we'd get even more stressed from the isolation, and he'd just hear us anyway. This way, we can keep an eye on things comfortably, you know? And, uh, if we're surrounded by customers, Foxy's less likely to take a shot at one of us. Gotta be a good role model for the kids.”

“Foxy's a pirate,” Mike says dully. “He's already a terrible role model.”

“Don't say that to his face,” Scott advises. “He operates off the Lazytown definition of piracy.”

That sentence is sufficiently confusing to break through Mike's darkening mood. “The what?”

“Come on! This one's not even that old. If you love to sail the seas – really? Nothing?” The senior guard droops, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Kids these days, no appreciation for good television.”

More references. A coping mechanism? If so, it was awfully well-timed. The rising tension is... well, still there, but Mike feels a bit less like he's drowning in it. 

“I know what you're trying to do,” he says. “You're not good at subtlety.”

Scott's reply is somewhere between blase and oblivious, as usual. “Good confidence! Keep that with you tonight, okay? Your shift will come sooner than you think. And, uh, don't worry too much about the contract just yet. If you don't make it through the night, it won't apply.”

“Oh, so I didn't sign my soul over to Fazbear Entertainment?”

“Definitely not,” Scott says. “Fazbear Entertainment doesn't recognize the human soul as currency.”

How specific.

* * *

Mike's shift does come a lot sooner than he expected it to. Funny how the hours can fly while the seconds crawl. Time is weird, he thinks as he gets ready to change. It's harder than it was yesterday, even though he knows how the buttons are supposed to work now. His fingers don't want to bend. The clothes themselves are a little worse for wear after spending the day tucked into a locker. The shirt especially will have to be washed if he wants to wear it a third time. It would still make a decent funeral shroud, though. Certainly it's higher quality than anything else he owns.

The most difficult part is unwrapping Lissa's scarf, partly because of sentiment, but mostly because Mike's neck looks even worse now than it did this morning. His eyes are bullet holes, his lips raw and bitten, but the handprint on his throat is so stark that it makes him sick.

He almost died last night. He's going to do it again tonight.

And for what?

With shaking hands, he loops the tie around his neck and pulls it into a clumsy knot. Then he leaves the bathroom before he can talk himself out of what may be the worst decision he's ever made. Scott's gone; he left before Mike did, to tuck himself into the big office with the vents. The booming voice informing Mike that he'd totally found the music box, no need to worry, is the last he's heard of his... his what? Mentor? Partner? Coworker? Companion in the territory of almost-certain death?

Last one sounds best. Mike's going with that.

The office is just as ugly and claustrophobic as he remembers it. Uncannily so. The fan and the cupcake are both perched on the desk, the Monitor laying exactly in the middle. He enters the room quickly, casting a nervous look over his shoulder, and picks it up. It's cold; the temperature feels good against his mistreated hands. Having it close takes a weight off his shoulders. A glance at the doors reveals that the one Chica tried to force open has been restored to perfect condition, which... how? Mike shifts the Monitor to one hand and rubs his eyes, but he still can't make out the faintest dents in the metal. Did someone just bring in a new door? How long do these things take to install?

He pushes the button experimentally. The door slides shut, retracting only when he releases the control.

“At least it works,” he says aloud, returning to the desk. “Whoever fixed it, thank you.”

A muffled snicker comes from entirely too close. Mike freezes in place.

“Who's there?”

Another giggle, from the same location. His eyes follow the sound to a familiar piece of pink plastic. His shoulders slump with relief and embarrassment.

“You sound entirely too menacing when you wobble,” he tells the cupcake, easing himself into the chair.

The cupcake wobbles one more time and goes still. Mike huffs and turns the Monitor on.

No movement in the backrooms as of yet. The halls of the pizzeria are dark and still. Mike finds himself lingering on the drawings that Bonnie was so transfixed by last night. Artistically speaking, they aren't very good, but the murder rabbit spent so much time standing in front of them. Mike wishes he'd taken the opportunity to do the same. What would he see if he looked at those messy scribbles in person? Would it be any different from what the grainy screen picks up?

He lowers the Monitor with a sigh, and – 

**IT'S ME**

Every muscle in his body goes rigid. What just –

**IT'S ME**

Who –

**IT'S ME**

He can't –

The Monitor. He has to. Get it up. A shield. The screen blocks the light blocks the voice blocks the. 

It has no face. No face. No eyes. But it's peering into him and getting ready to scoop out the parts it doesn't like.

Mike stares sightlessly into the screen until his breath begins to slow down again. His fingers have gone numb around the plastic corners. Mindless fear tugs at him, threatening to drag him under again. He closes his eyes and forces himself to count to ten. He only makes it to five before they snap open. The androids –

Are still conspicuous only in their absence. His little freak-out appears to have lasted just a few seconds. How? It felt like years. What even...

He pauses on the West Hallway, trying to figure out what just happened. Something was in the office with him. Except that nothing was there. Something was looking at him. Except that nothing was there. Something was... going to kill him.

Except that nothing was there.

“'It's me.'” Barely a minute past midnight and his voice is already thick and shaking. “What does that even mean?”

The fan makes a conciliatory whir as the cupcake begins to wobble again. What a lovely portent for how the rest of night will go.

Yesterday, there was a tape in the office. There's one for tonight, too. Mike fumbles for it, almost drops it, grabs it by the tip of his fingers. He snaps the cassette into place and sits there, cold and hunched over, trying not to clench his fingers too tight.

Scott's voice crackles to life. _“Uhh, hello, hello? Uh, well, if you're hearing this and you made it to day two, uh, congrats! I – I won't talk as long this time since Freddy and his friends tend to become more active as the week progresses.”_

That's not good.

_“It might be a good idea to peek at those cameras just to make sure everyone's in their proper place. You know...”_

Mike brings up the Monitor, already flicking through the cameras. Nothing, nothing, nothing. The lack of movement just makes him jumpier. The tape keeps playing in the background, the echo of a youthful Scott nattering away. How old was he when he recorded these? He can't have been much older than Mike is now. The image of Scott at nineteen, just beginning to grow into his broad shoulders, hunched over this same desk and speaking into a recorder seems terribly sad.

Scott lived, though. He's in the other office right now. Still breathing, still fighting. How can Mike do any less?

 _“Freddy doesn't come out very often, and when he does, he, uh, usually wanders off to the stage. He gets a lot more active if the lights go out, though, so, hey, I guess that's one more reason to run out of power, right?”_ A brief pause, before Scott goes on to expand the importance of the door lights.

Mike glances at the darkened openings, gaping wounds in his defences, and shakes his head. Fine, fine, he'll keep them in mind this time. If only because it would be stupid to rely on good night vision when he's exhausted.

_“So if-if you can’t find something, or someone, on your cameras, be sure to check the door lights. Uh, you might only have a few seconds to react... uh, not that you would be in any danger, of course.”_

“You're not fooling anyone,” Mike grumbles, and flicks to the next screen.

A thick white tarp, covering almost the whole display. Faint lights, shining uselessly into the gloom. Countless tiny scratches carved into the bits of exposed checkerboard floor.

His fingers start to tremble.

 _“Also, check on the curtain in Pirate's Cove from time to time. The guy who lives there doesn't like being watched, so he'll stop what he's doing if you stare at him. Hopefully.”_ The recording captures Scott clearing his throat before he switches back to false cheer. _“Anyway, I'm sure you have everything under control! Uh, talk to you soon.”_

A loud 'chunk' marks the end of the tape. Mike jabs at the Monitor until the tarp disappears, a sea of static flooding the screen. He stares at the distorted pixels, raw panic cooling into clear, focused terror.

This... this happened last night, didn't it?

The static stops, revealing the door to the backroom. It's open. A luminous white-gloved hand rests delicately on the doorframe for a second before Bonnie steps outside. His ears twitch once, then swivel to the left.

“What are you listening to?”

Mike claps a hand over his mouth, but it's a bit late. The words are out. Another glitch runs through the screen. When it clears, Bonnie's eyes are fixed directly on his. Mike slams the Monitor down and tries to get his heart rate under control.

God, he's pathetic. At this rate, he's not going to last the hour.

The Monitor's still on when he checks it. Bonnie's gone, but Mike finds him in the hallway again. The one where –

Where –

He glances around, shivering, and flicks to the next camera. Empty. Empty empty empty. Chica. The yellow bird-duck-thing is hiding in the Restroom, where she seems to be cleaning damp toilet paper off the floor. Ugh. One of the worst parts of any job in the service industry. Mike's heart goes out to her. Sure, she's trying to kill him, but... damn.

That said, why is this her job in the first place? She's a crazy dangerous android that entertains children, cooks surprisingly healthy food, and kills people. Cleaning bathrooms does not seem like it should be on her priority list. He stares at her crouched on the floor, feathers stiff with visible disgust, and tries to figure out why.

“Does this place not have janitors?” he asks aloud. “I mean, seriously... what if that stuff gets caught in her gears?”

Foreign objects and complex machinery do not go well together, as Mike's years of cash register operation have taught him. Best case scenario: the scent of rotten stuff clings to Chica, which will not make her actual job any easier. Worst case scenario: she smells awful and stops working.

Which, uh, might actually be the best scenario for him, anyway.

Great. Now he sounds like Scott.

Time to check on Bonnie again. The rabbit is still in the hall, eyes glued to the wall. His ears, however, are tilted. As Mike watches, one of them rolls in a short but undeniable twitch. Bile rises in his throat. The motion is less malfunctioning machinery, more muscle spasm, which only makes it more disturbing.

“Nope,” he says, and flicks to the next screen.

Kitchen, other hall, restroom – still there, Chica? – show stage, backroom – door still ajar, but nobody moving behind it – curtain.

Curtain that just moved.

“What the hell?”

That – that –

No. He is not going to panic. He's already had panic attack one today. No more until at least – he checks the clock – 2:00 am. Mike steels himself and presses as close to the screen as he dares. 

As he suspected, it's Foxy, eye darting back and forth as he peers out from behind the curtain. Or it is, until a quick burst of visual distortion turns the image into snow. How is that even happening? Is this Monitor not wireless? Those kinds of devices are supposed to go flat colours when they lose connection, right?

The static clears to reveal the curtain closed once more. Pirate's Cove is still again, an abandoned playroom steeped in dust. Abandoned, save for the faint shadow Mike can see moving behind the canvas.

If he's reading its movements right, Foxy is doubled over, clutching his head.

It's just past one. He's working with 80% battery. Time to put the Monitor down, at least for a little while. Mike turns it off with stiff fingers and turns so he can keep the doors in sight. Then, just in case, he hits the button for the lights.

_Oh god Chica what._

She reaches out, the tips of her nails – claws – talons – shining gold. Mike bodily hurls himself into the wall, shoulder checking the 'close' button. The doors slam with a metallic screech. He leans against the button, panting, and stares at smooth silver.

“Didn't get yourself caught this time, huh?” he says, with the sort of calm that comes from having just been in a life-and-death situation and not being entirely sure you've survived it. “That sounded more like nails on a chalkboard. Better or worse for Bonnie?”

No answer. He wasn't really expecting one. The androids don't seem to like talking to adults.

Well. Unless it's Bonnie. The hellbunny does like to unsettle Mike. And apparently, steal his clothing.

Speaking of which...

“I'm sorry,” he calls down the open doorway, before he can think twice and decides against it. “Not for closing the door. But the, uh, the screech thing? Totally not intentional. Hope this doesn't change your mind on the jacket. I kind of need that.”

He will if he makes it out alive, anyway. And even if he doesn't, it could be a shroud or something. Wouldn't want the children to see what's left of him.

Shit. If he dies, what happens to Lissa's scarf? It's just hanging in his locker. Will it stay there, gathering dust, until someone throws it out?

Nope. Not happening. Mike grabs the Monitor and checks the right door. It's clear – Chica's wandered off. Bonnie is making his stately way toward the Dining Hall. And judging by the power draw, which Scott informed him they share, his companion in the territory of almost-certain death is probably still alive.

Which means Mike feels zero guilt about sticking his head out the left door and yelling.

“Scott! If I die, check my locker! Put the scarf into the lost and found!”

It's been abandoned long enough. Mike's worked this kind of job before. He knows how it goes. Kids are always taking things that aren't theirs from the collection box, and he's okay with that. Lissa's present should be useful to someone. She'd like that, he thinks.

There's a faint, booming crash as something slams into something else down the hall. Mike would like to think that's an answer to his call. He knows better.

First step: get back inside the office.

Second step: slam the left door.

Third step: check the monitor.

A flash of red is all the warning he gets before something hurls itself into the door. The whole room shudders. Mike topples over with a squawk. He throws his hands out to catch him, and realizes his mistake just as his weight lands on his abused hand. The whole limb explodes with pain. He curls around it, Monitor on the floor a few inches away, and chokes back the screams.

It hurts. It hurts so much. But as soon as he can keep his eyes open, he's scrabbling for the Monitor.

The screen shows an empty hallway. Whatever was outside, it's gone now.

Was that Foxy? The Marionette? One of the other androids Scott mentioned – the ones that Mike can't even bring to mind right now? No way of knowing unless it comes back. Until it comes back.

God, he doesn't want to be on the receiving end of one of those pounces.

Monitor. He needs to check the other rooms. If that thing's still out there...

It's only 1:48. Chica's in the kitchen. The silhouette of Foxy is back behind the tarp. He can't find Bonnie anywhere. After several fruitless attempts, he turns the Monitor off and crawls back into his seat.

On the desk, the cupcake begins to rock back and forth again.

“Yeah, laugh it up,” Mike growls, resting his chin on the plastic. “I'm throwing you at the next one who comes by. See if I don't.”

The rocking stops instantly.

“Yeah. Thought so.”

Thirty seconds later, he's checking the Monitor again. The wet smacking sounds drive him from the kitchen. Bonnie has wandered back into the hall, frowning elegantly into the dark. By the time he reaches Pirate Cove, Mike is almost prepared for what he'll see. Keyword being 'almost.'

Foxy's halfway out when he gets there, ears twitching wildly, head at an impossible angle. His one gold eye shines like a beacon, casting too-bright light over the room. Behind him, Mike can see the ruins of a play area, countless scratches dug into the floor.

The android stares silently into the camera, jaw locked in an awful rictus of a smile, and pulls the curtain closed.

* * *

**“Foxy. Stop.”**

**“No. New guy won't stop lookin' at me.”**

**“He's mine.”**

**“He's breathin', is what he is. 'm gonna rip his eyes out and eat 'em. Ya don' like it, make yer move sooner.”**

**“Fine. I will.”**


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no update. RL has been awful.

As the night wears on, the knowledge that Scott is here is the only thing that keeps Mike from doing something incredibly stupid. Stupider than what he's already done tonight, which is really saying something. He can't help it – the longer he sits in this cramped little room, the stronger the urge to just get out grows – to stand up and stretch his legs, wander the halls until something catches him. It's suicide. He should know better than to even consider it. But damn if it isn't funny to imagine how Bonny would react if Mike came up beside him and started admiring those drawings, too.

_Violently. He would react violently._

“But at least I wouldn't die staring at these doors.”

Mike sighs, resting his cheek on the desk so the pink plastic pastry blocks most of his vision. He didn't even know it was possible to feel so much loathing for inanimate objects. Inanimate objects that are saving his life, natch.

“I mean, I could understand if it were you, probably,” he says, giving the cupcake an idle poke. It wobbles obligingly. “But nah, you're cool. We're cool. It's the fucking doors I hate.”

The fan coughs, sending adrenaline flooding through Mike's system. Running on autopilot, he grabs the nearest object and throws it in the direction of the noise. Fan and cupcake both go tumbling off the desk. Mike grabs at the scored wood, heart in his throat, and tries to remember how to breathe.

“Shit,” he says when he's calm enough to get the words out. “Sorry, guys. You gotta quit startling me like that. I'm... I'm not having a good night.”

Understatement of the fucking century. Foxy is a nightmare, but dear god, Bonnie is worse. The two of them have been hounding him for hours. He hasn't been able to keep the doors open for more than five minutes at a time. The power is...

He doesn't want to think about the power right now.

The fan whirs plaintively. Mike gets up, hissing as his stiff muscles protest, and comes out from behind the desk.

“All right, all right. I'm coming.”

It's still too heavy, and the metal is harsh against his gloved hands, but Mike doesn't complain. Picking the fan up and putting it back is the most productive he's felt all night. No trembling in terror from nothing. No staring at the Monitor and waiting for someone to move. No sitting at the desk, hands itching for the screen, but forcing himself to wait because of the goddamn power issue. Just the burn of effort and the weight of what feels more like a car engine than a desk fan. It thumps into place neatly. He gives it a small pat before stooping to grab the cupcake.

“Chica hasn't been coming around,” he muses, placing it beside the fan.

_“Maybe she got bored.”_

“Well, sorry for being boring.” Mike rolls his eyes, then pauses. That... wasn't one of his thoughts. He looks around the room, eyes darting toward the doors. “Who said that? Who's there?”

Silence. The only things here are his desk buddies.

“Who's there?” he repeats.

Nothing.

How long has it been since he checked on Pirate's Cove? Too long. An awful scraping noise echoes down the hall. Mike lunges for the door controls. They close on Foxy's leering grin. The whole room shakes as the android hurls himself against the doors.

Mike shudders, putting all his weight on the button.

Finally, the banging stops. He glances warily at the other door before grabbing at the Monitor. Foxy's gone, slunk back to his hidey-hole. Bonnie's wandered off to the back room. Chica...

His head jerks up just in time to catch her on the other side of the window. She's smiling. Or at least, she's baring her teeth. The white coating has chipped off a few of them, revealing the metallic structure beneath. It looks disarmingly like a mouth full of fillings. _Too many cupcakes, Chica_ , he thinks, and giggles.

The cupcake on the desk wobbles again. Mike glances at it, but for once it doesn't seem to be laughing at him. Instead, the noise is directed outside. Toward Chica, maybe?

“That's it,” he says, returning his gaze to the window. “Wiggle at her. Maybe that's her weakness.”

Chica's expression doesn't change, but her eyes glow a little brighter. Okay, bad plan. Clearly she has no weaknesses. Mike regrets ever opening his mouth.

Another glance at the Monitor. It's 4:12. The curtain slams itself closed. He skips through the cameras to the back room – hello, Bonnie – and sets it down. Three seconds later, he grabs it again. That wasn't Bonnie. The person in the back room is too tall to be the rabbit, and even in the shadows, Bonnie has more colour. This android is monochrome, all blacks and silver, and his eyes are a blank white. He stands awkwardly in the corner, his back hunched, hands sporadically twitching at his sides. He looks – well, he looks like Freddy, if the bear had his skin removed and was dressed in a trash bag.

This must be N.

“Huh,” Mike says, watching the unfinished android stare aimlessly at the wall. “Nice to meet you, I guess.”

Something moves in the corner of his eye. He turns just in time to see Chica vanish from the window. Right, time to slam the door in her face again. Rude of him, he knows, but if she wasn't trying to kill him they wouldn't have this problem.

He looks back at the Monitor, flipping quickly through the screens. If Foxy's in the Cove, N's in the back, and Chica's here, where's Bonnie? The answer is: nowhere, apparently. He's not on any of the screens. This doesn't bode well. Mike slams the device down and turns on the lights outside the far door – the one Chica isn't hiding behind. A tall, slim figure stands out against the sudden glare.

Nope. Just nope. Mike can't hit the button hard enough.

Both the doors are closed now. He can't turn the Monitor off – Foxy will charge, and each time he starts banging things the power drains. What battery percentage is he at?

36%. Not good.

Here's hoping Scott was listening when he made his last request.

Another flip through the screens. Empty kitchen. Empty dining hall. Empty back room. Empty–

Wait. Empty back room?

Where's N?

* * *

**“What are you doing out? It's not safe.”**

**“...”**

**“You're curious? There's nothing to see here. Just go back, okay? You can keep Freddy company.”**

**“...”**

**“He's what?”**

**“...”**

**“Goddamn it. Okay, change of plans. You stay out here, I'll go back and deal with Freddy. But pick somewhere and stay put, okay?”**

**“...”**

**“And he goes straight to the office. Of course. Bonnie, look after him? I've gotta go. Freddy's... not having a good night.”**

* * *

 

The next time Mike checks, Chica is gone. This is good, because he can leave one door open, and bad, because he has no idea where she is. Bonnie waits a few more seconds before stepping back as well, making his meandering path back to the hall with the drawings. At least, Mike assumes that's where he's going. He's not risking battery life to find out. Not with Foxy's wrath hanging overhead. He needs to stay focused and conserve power if he wants to make it. No matter how concerning the shadows outside the room are.

Check the Monitor. Flinch back as Foxy glowers, then slams the curtain closed. Turn off the Monitor. Wash, rinse, repeat. Tonight is less nerve-wracking than yesterday, but no less stressful. And his fingers are beginning to ache.

_Come on_ , he thinks, you can do it. _Only two hours to go._

But a lot can happen in two hours. Five minutes nearly killed him. And as the seconds stretch on, with nothing but the soft whir of the fan to distract him, Mike finds himself overcome with the urge to do something stupid.

He's not going to stand up. He's not. That would be actual suicide. But his eyes keep drifting to the doors and it's all he can do to stay seated. His fingers hurt. His neck hurts. Everything hurts. But when his uninjured hand drifts to his throat and begins to scratch at the abused skin, he can't make himself stop.

This is the kind of thing his therapist warned him about, when he was young and still shaken from the accident. The kind of shitty coping mechanism that should be clamped down on before it becomes a habit. But the concentrated deliberateness of it is reassuring somehow. It's not that he wants to hurt himself. It's that causing himself pain somehow makes the world more stable.

He jerks his fingers down and scowls at the desk. Damn it. He hasn't slipped like this high school.

_“Why'd you stop?”_

The words drift into his head like smoke.

“I don't want to hurt myself.”

_“Then why'd you start?”_

“I don't always listen to what I want.”

...he isn't talking to himself, is he. Mike raises his eyes slowly to find the plastic surface overlayed with a blurred mirage. Static-filled columns, crossed like legs. An eye-searingly pink splotch. The impression of a bright and cheerful smile.

Except there's nothing there.

Mike jerks his head up to find the desk empty, save for the fan and the cupcake. He stares blankly at them for a moment, then shakes his head. Oh good, he's seeing things. Again. At least this vision didn't do anything more threatening than talk at him.

Time to check the Monitor. Foxy's just stepping out from the curtain when Mike catches him, and he leers at the camera for a second before retreating. In the moment before he does, the rest of Pirate's Cove is visible. It looks like a nice place. Fun, even. Row upon row of painted plastic waves, a frame for puppet shows, lots of props that must have been brightly coloured once. But every single surface has been slashed with claws. If Mike didn't know better, he might say the gouges form a pattern. But before he can register more than a few recurring shapes, the curtain is shut, and he moves on to the next screen.

Bonnie's not in the hall, for once. He appears to have found his way to the dining area. Someone else has taken his place in the hallway. Someone taller and stockier, whose arms twitch uselessly at his sides every few seconds. Someone whose skin has a metallic gleam in the dim light.

Hello there, N. What did Scott say about this guy again? 'He's the only one who's not playing their game...' or something. The exact wording has slipped his mind, but Mike's pretty that was the gist of it. N is supposed to be the one harmless android. The question is: does Mike believe that?

A burst of static. When it clears, N is slowly making his way toward the office. His steps are odd, like a wind-up toy with something off about its balance. Mike glances at warily at the door, waiting for the android to come into sight. The first thing he sees, as always, is inhuman eyes flashing eerily in the dark. N seems clumsier in person, lacking the others' preternatural grace. His feet make shuffling sounds as he lurches forward and the black plastic wrapped around his silver limbs squeaks when he moves. His face is wide-eyed and expressionless. The lack of malice is startling.

Mike's been prepping himself for another plunge into the uncanny valley, but it doesn't happen. If the rest of the androids are too human for comfort, N isn't human enough to disturb. There's something kinda cute about the rivets at his joints, the wiry stiffness of his black hair. And up close, Mike can confirm that N really does seem to have been wrapped in several garbage bags, which is genuinely hilarious. Also a bit sad. Did someone try and throw him away?

N tilts his head, the motion creaking softly. His face is still blank, but his body language has shifted to questioning.

Ah, shit.

“How much of that did I say out loud?”

N stares wordlessly, still making his way down the hall. Mike eyes his progress with growing concern.

“I was told you weren't planning to kill me.”

A slow nod.

“Yes, you aren't planning to murder me?”

Another nod.

“Kind of you to clarify. I'd still like you to stay on the other side of the door, if that's all right. It's been... stressful the last couple of days.”

No nod this time, but N does slow down obligingly. He stops a few feet outside the door, just before Mike's twitchy fingers grab for the button. Once in place, N spends a few seconds examining the office before lowering himself to his knees with painstaking care. Mike watches, wobbling between concern and confusion.

“What are you doing?”

N pats the floor with one trembling hand, the other pressed against the wall to keep his balance. It's definitely supposed to convey something. Can this guy not talk? Looking at his mouth, Mike's inclined to suspect he's mute. His face is more of a solid mask than anything. Doesn't seem like it has moving parts.

“Yeah, I don't know what that means,” Mike admits after a minute.

Another pat. It kinda looks like a gesture a kid he knew in high school used to make when she saw a cat and was trying to get it to sit with her. But there's no way it means the same thing. That would be ridiculous.

Pat, pat.

“...I'm not a cat, you know. And I'm not leaving the office.”

N's broad shoulders slump for a moment.

“Sorry. But I don't really wanna die tonight.”

The cupcake wobbles behind him, and it sounds like laughter.

_“Sure about that?”_

Yay, more voices. Mike sighs, picking the Monitor up again.

“So maybe I'm not that attached to being alive. Doesn't mean I'm going to go out of my way to get dismembered.”

N winces. It's so unexpected that Mike almost drops the device and scrambles to grab it before it falls. When he looks up, N is gesturing again. This time, it's a lot more complicated to untangle.

He gives up after five minutes. Mike's always sucked at charades.

“I seriously have no idea what you're trying to say.”

N lowers his head. He could be depressed. He could be thinking deeply. He could be tired. With that face, it's really hard to tell. Then, he raises one hand to his neck and lets the fingers settle around his throat. Mike finds himself mirroring the motion and slams his hand back down. The marks on his own neck burn.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

The android removes his hand and puts both arms beside his head, where – with great difficulty – he raises one finger on each side. Neither of them will straighten fully, but that's fine. This isn't something Mike could mistake.

“You're asking if Bonnie did this?” Mike gives the other doorway a nervous glance, but it seems empty. “Yeah. He did. Last night.”

N dips his head, nearly overbalancing. His hands go back down, grabbing at the walls. Mike's out of his seat before he realizes that the robot's successfully caught himself. He sits back down, feeling a bit awkward.

_You wouldn't have been able to lift him anyway. And didn't you just say you weren't going to leave the office?_

The night guard looks down at the Monitor to distract himself. As soon as he turns it on, Foxy screeches loudly. Mike nearly tosses himself out of his seat again. At least the curtain is closed now.

“Sorry about that,” he says uselessly. “Foxy doesn't like me much.”

The shrug N gives him feels sympathetic. Mike decides to interpret it as such.

“So, what brings you down here? I'm... not exactly the best company.”

N stares him for several seconds, unblinking, then slowly shakes his head.

“I am the best company?”

Nod, nod.

“That. Uh. That says terrible things about what you're used to.”

If he's going to be playing host, he should probably find something to talk about. What sort of things does one share with a mute, surprisingly non-malicious robot at – 5 AM already? Wow. Mike flips through the screens to confirm that Bonnie is still winding his way slowly through each room and Chica appears to have disappeared entirely, then puts the Monitor down.

“Can I tell you something? It's not that important. I'd just feel a bit better if someone else knew the story. That way, she won't disappear with me.”

There's a moment of deeply awkward silence in which Mike seriously considers walking out the other hallway and letting Bonnie rip him apart. Then he hears the creak of N's agreement and meets those curious white eyes. He can't back down after that. Lissa would make fun of him. He takes a shallow breath and counts to three.

“Until I was twelve years old, I had a sister. Her name was Melissa.”

After that, the word just flow. He talks about her cheeky smile. Her awful taste in floral shirts. The way she drove him utterly insane just by existing. The sheer rage that overtook him every time someone made her cry. Mike knows he wasn't the best brother – he learned how to sibling by trial and error, and being a good example was an uphill trudge – but Lissa was something special, even at her most irritating. He was always trying to be better for her.

One rainy night took all that away.

“It was my fault,” he says. “There was a sleepover – not sure what that is? Don't worry, that's not important either. I was out of the house, and I got scared. Couldn't stand it anymore. Had to call my parents to come get me. But it was late, and the place I was staying at was on a very busy street. And Lissa – Lissa begged to come with them. She wanted to see me. I was – I was dreading it. I knew she was going to tease me. She never got the chance.”

Memory isn't perfect. The details of the crash have probably warped and twisted over the years. But the numb horror he felt watching, the sensation of his heart falling into a bottomless abyss? That part has stayed with him these eight years, perfectly preserved. A butterfly on a cork-board. An insect in amber.

The words “There was a truck, and it hit them.” are laughably false in comparison to the truth of that experience. He says them anyway, looking down at his lap so he doesn't have to meet N's gaze. “I couldn't do anything but watch.”

His hands are all twisted together, nails dug into the skin. The bruised one is bleeding. He didn't even notice.

“It was my fault,” Mike repeats. “If I hadn't been such a coward, she'd still be here.”

Something shifts behind him. Probably the cupcake again. Mike looks forward instead, staring past N and into the dark. N lets that slide for roughly five seconds, then taps his twitching fingers against the linoleum floor. It's sudden enough to be mistaken for a gunshot. Mike jerks, eyes wide.

“What?”

The android makes sure he has Mike's attention before he moves again, holding one hand in front of his mouth and slowly moving it down. His hand isn't quite flat and his wrist ends up tilting, making the gesture more diagonal than directed at Mike, but for all that it's recognizable. One of the few gestures Mike's picked up from six plus years of customer service.

_Thank you._

“Who taught you sign language?” he asks, smiling weakly back.

N does reply, but Mike can't make any sense of the gesture at all. Another failing on his part, he thinks, but it doesn't have the weight it usually does. He told his story. Lissa's not just his personal ghost anymore. Nothing seems as quite as final with her continued existence assured.

Even if Bonnie broke into the office now, he –

Bells. Bells everywhere.

Something must be wrong. The night can't be over. He's just been talking with N for – he checks the Monitor – almost an hour? How is that even possible.

“Did the other androids just disappear?”

Movement. N is levering himself upright. Once he's steady on his feet, he makes the _thank you_ sign again, this time to something over Mike's head.

A flash of purple.

Bonnie is standing in the other doorway, lips curved in a small, pleasant smile. He's made even more sylph-like by N's grounded presence, a tracery of bright colours and impossible grace. And yet his eyes are dim. So dim they barely seem to be glowing at all. The light pours into them as Mike watches, bathing the room in crimson.

“Hi,” the guard says stupidly. “How long have you been there?”

The rabbit says nothing. He glances at Mike, unreadable, then melts back into the shadows.


	17. Chapter 17

Mike stays where he is, staring blankly at the empty doorway. Even as the silence of the night is being slowly broken, he doesn't move. Linoleum squeaks under the shoes of the day shift. A horde of kitchen implements begin to clatter with use. Far away, he can faintly pick up the murmur of voices. Compared to all that, the sound of running footsteps is so unexpected that Mike doesn't have time to put up his guard. His legs aren't cooperating and whatever part of the brain is responsible for the fight or flight response seems to have broken from overuse.

Thankfully, it's Scott who lurches into view, screeching to a stop just outside the far door.

“Mike? You all right?”

Mike nods, feeling almost giddy. Not punch-drunk like last night, but definitely not calm.

“I thought running was against the rules.”

“Was someone running?” Scott laughs, running a hand through hair even more flyaway than usual. “That's, uh, that's not good. I'll give them a warning if I catch them, okay? More importantly–”

His jaw snaps shut as he catches sight of N. For a long moment, the incomplete android just stares. Mike thought N's stiff expression was unsettling, but that was nothing compared to this. It shouldn't be possible for an immobile face to display such – longing, that was the only word for it. N looked at Scott the way a starving man looked at a feast. The way an orphan looked at another child's parents. Hunger, hurt, raw animalistic need.

And then the android turns away, that seething aura buried as quickly as it arose. He pushes himself off the wall and walks down the hall. Mike can barely hear N's departure over the blood roaring in his ears.

Something almost happened. Hell if he knows what, but he's so, so glad it didn't.

“I didn't know he was here.” Scott gives the empty doorway a worried glance. Then he remembers Mike is in the room and the plastic smile returns. “A-anyway! Let's get out of here before the day shift get moving.”

He doesn't have to say that twice. Mike lays the Monitor down and eases himself out of his seat. Yesterday's bruises ache as he moves. Why do injuries always hurt more the day after?  
Scott meets him halfway across the room, shrinking down to make his size less threatening. Mike has no idea how he's doing it, but it's working. His survival instinct doesn't so much as twinge when he takes Scott's arm and lets the older man support him.

“I heard you yell something earlier, but I couldn't quite make it out,” Scott admits as they leave the office. “If you want to communicate with the other guards after hours, you, uh, need to try some more effective methods. But don't worry!” he says hastily. “We, uh, we already have a few methods nailed down. Cell phones aren't allowed on the premises, but walkie talkies are okay. And I once rigged up something crazy for a guy who could pick up radio waves on a filling.”

“Doesn't Fritz bring his phone in?” Mike asks.

“Yeah, well... Fritz is Fritz. We can't stop him from doing stuff like that. Believe me, we've tried.”

Fair enough.

“Won't be a problem for me. I don't have a phone.”

Scott stiffens.

“You don't?”

Mike tilts his head curiously.

“Yeah. Mine broke a while back. Haven't got a new one yet.”

The tension leaves.

“Okay. Okay. You, uh, might want to see about fixing that. Cell phones may not be allowed on the premises, but they are invaluable for staying in touch with your employer. And, uh, your coworkers.”

“Your coworkers?” Mike echoes. “Why?”

“Well, now that you're part of the official Fazbear Family, it's kind of our job to keep you alive and healthy for as long as possible. Really, it's in the contract and everything.” This close, some of the artifice in Scott's good cheer is lost. Mike can see the dark circles under his eyes, the stress lines on his forehead. “And besides, it's good to talk to people who know what you're going through. We don't lose as many employees to mental health issues as we do to, well, physical health issues, but it's still not a small number. Talk to us, Mike. We're all family now.”

“For better or worse,” a new voice cuts in.

Mike jumps and jerks his head toward the sound. Fritz?

Yup, it's Fritz, all right. Mike has no idea where he came from, but there he is, in all his sullen punk glory. The latex jacket from yesterday has made a return, as have the steel-toed boots. The rest of the ensemble is new, though – acid washed jeans and a distressed grey dress shirt. Mike does a double take at the top. Is that part of a shredded work uniform?

No. Colour's too dark. Must have come from somewhere else.

“You're out early,” Scott says, stopping in his tracks.

“Heard you were talking shit.” Fritz keeps walking forward until he's within grabbing distance. Then he takes advantage of the proximity to steal Mike's arm. “I'll take this.”

Mike struggles on reflex.

“What are you–”

“Pam's looking for you,” Fritz tells Scott, completely ignoring Mike's feeble attempts to pry himself loose.

Scott looks torn. After a few seconds of deliberation, he gives Mike an apologetic shrug.

“Sorry, gotta take this. But hey, now might be a good time to flex those socialization muscles!”

Mike groans, watching Scott's back disappear around the corner.

“Really? That's the metaphor you're going with?”

The words “Sorry! Can't be helped!” drift down the hall toward them.

Fritz snorts and gives Mike's shoulder a small shove.

“Can you walk on your own?”

He steps back, rubbing the sore area.

“I'm fine.”

The other night guard looks down at him with piercing eyes. Mike steps back again, resisting the urge to cover himself. He's not actually in danger from Fritz's clinical gaze, no matter how much it feels like hes being flayed alive.

“Good.” Fritz nods and turns on his heel, gesturing for Mike to follow. “Jeremy's waiting in the break room. We'll talk there.”

Oh, joy. Apology or no apology, he can't say he's looking forward to seeing the blond again. But Scott was right – he should at least talk to the other night guards. They've been doing this a lot longer than Mike has. And it's strangely easy to talk to Fritz. Probably because it's so clear that he doesn't care enough to judge. All the fears that led Mike to isolate himself after high school don't apply here. It's not like they're friends. Just two guys stuck in the same deathtrap, unwilling to escape for reasons they can't quite explain.

Yeah, okay. Mike sets his jaw and starts walking. He can handle this.

* * *

Mike was wrong. He can't handle this. Somehow, in the space of twenty-four hours, he forgot how much of an emotional wreck Jeremy is. The instant he gets through the door, he can feel the blond's eyes on him. He's not even glaring, just giving Mike the most pitiful pair of puppydog eyes ever. Mike hasn't done anything, but he still feels guilty on principle.

“Hi?”

It wasn't meant to be a question, but it comes out like one.

“H-hello.” Jeremy fidgets and looks down. “How was your night?”

“It sucked.”

“Ah. That's. Um.”

Fritz sighs heavily and kicks the door shut. “Okay, that's enough. Mike, sit the fuck down. Jeremy, shut the fuck up. Why are you even here? It's your day off.”

Mike sits down. Jeremy follows suit, shrinking into himself. He's even better at it than Scott. Intellectually, Mike knows that Jeremy is about 5' 10'' and packs a lethal glare, but it's really hard to remember that when he's trembling like a puppy.

“I just – just wanted to make sure Mike was all right.”

And here comes the guilt again. Mike takes one out of Scott's book and plasters on a smile.

“I'm fine. Worst thing that happened was my hand getting a bit more banged up.” He holds up the limb in question. “See?”

Jeremy gives the hand a thorough once-over, wincing at the stark purple bruises. Fritz leans over and whistles.

“Damn, that's impressive.”

“Thanks,” Mike deadpans. “Seriously though, unless you have some sort of magic anti-bruise cream, I don't think there's much you can do for me.”

“Don't be stupid,” Fritz says, cross-legged on his bench. “Magic doesn't do nice shit like that. All it's good for is building and housing murder machines.”

“Magic isn't real,” Jeremy grumbles, but he lets Mike reclaim his hand without protest. “Did anything strange happen last night?”

“'Strange?'”

“Stranger than usual. Like, um. Hallucinations?”

Mike pretends to think for a moment. “Does it count as a hallucination if I can't remember what I thought I saw?”

“Yeah,” Jeremy rasps. “It counts.”

“You found the thing on your second night? Moving awfully fast, new guy.” Despite the scolding words, Fritz sounds impressed. “I only saw Goldie on my second week, and Jeremy made it almost a year before his first encounter.”

Oh, thank god.

“You've seen it too?”

“Of course,” Fritz says. “He's just one of many occupational hazards at the pizzeria.”

“D-don't worry, though!” Jeremy adds. “We've figured out how to make him go away before anything happens.”

That... that's good. Mike remembers the awful certainty that he was going to die – going to be killed in some unspeakable way – and can't hold back a shudder. He's never felt so powerless before, even with Bonnie's hand around his throat. He never wants to feel like that again.

“I'd love to hear it.”

The trick is laughably straightforward. All you have to do is, after the _thing_ shows up, grab the monitor and look at it until the _thing_ goes away. It's that simple. Mike did it by complete accident.

Fritz shakes his head. “You were lucky.”

His tone is dark. Mike wonders how many other night guards weren't lucky.

Jeremy leans forward, expression painfully earnest.

“Did anything else happen?”

Did anything else happen? Mike racks his brain, trying to sift through the sleep-deprived ramblings and the voices in his head.

“I thought I was hearing voices all night, but I haven't slept since–” Since before he took this job. God, no wonder he's hearing things. “–too long. And, um, N came by.”

Both his coworkers stiffen.

“The unfinished N?” Fritz asks, eyes sharp. “Tall guy, shitty fashion sense, no skin?”

Mike nods.

“Scott said he'd be harmless, but a good listener.”

A bark of laughter.

“Scott would say that.”

“It's not that N is dangerous,” Jeremy says, hands raised defensively. “It's just... he's very...”

“Creepy,” Fritz says. “He'll stand in the doorway for hours if you let him. Every once in a while he'll jerk or reach toward you, but that's it. He won't do anything else. He just stares.” Brown eyes narrow appraisingly. “Kinda thought you might have a problem with it. Most people do.”

“No, he was – he was nice. Stayed back when I asked him to. Listened when I talked. And...” Should he tell them about Lissa? Mike considers it and finds he doesn't want to. Not yet. Later, maybe, but for now the story's already been heard. It's enough to know she'll live on. “And the oddest thing he did was give Scott this – this look.”

Jeremy shudders violently. Fritz reaches over to steady him. Then he takes out his phone.

“Don't elaborate. We all know what you're talking about.”

Oh, good. Mike's honestly not sure how he'd put that look into words, anyway. He stares at Fritz's phone instead, screen filled by a colourful logo as it turns on, and remembers something.

“Um, Fritz? Scott said I should buy a phone today. To keep in contact with you guys.”

Fritz glances up.

“Huh. So that's why you haven't offered us your number yet. Jeremy thought he was being snubbed.”

Mike laughs awkwardly.

“Of course not.”

The blond is wilting again. God, Mike's tired.

“Whatever. Anyways, you should probably get that over with. Take Jeremy with you – he needs to get out of here, fucker showed up the moment the clock hit six just so he could catch you.”

He what?

“That... doesn't sound safe.”

“It's not.”

Jeremy buries his head in his hands.

“I can't,” he mumbles.

“I'm sorry, what was that?" Fritz asks. "I thought I heard something stupid.”

“I can't,” Jeremy repeats a bit louder. “I have to get home soon – my dad...”

Fritz gives him a hard look, then sighs.

“Right. Shit. Mike, looks like you're stuck with me for the day.”

“Okay?” Mike's not entirely sure what's happening at this point. He rubs his eyes, jaw cracking in a monster yawn. “That's... that's cool.”

“Sure,” Fritz says flatly. “All right, you've got half an hour to pull yourself together. Breakfast is at 6:45 sharp. Then we're hitting the mall.”

Are electronic stores usually open that early? Mike has no idea. The corner store where he works doesn't stock fancy devices, and it's not in a good part of town.

The corner store –

Shit.

“I have – I have a shift at noon.”

Fritz's eyes narrow beneath his fringe.

“Part-time or full-time?”

“Part-time. Um, 12 to 5:30.”

“We can work with that.”

“Mike, you may want to get some sleep,” Jeremy suggests. Is he wringing his hands? No, just picking at the skin around one raw nail. “You seem... a bit more put together than last time, but do you think you can handle another job right now?”

No. He definitely can't. If Mike has to handle anything more difficult than this, he may cry.

“All right,” he says. “I'll try and sleep.”

“After breakfast.”

Fritz's tone brooks no argument. Mike has no choice but to agree.

Breakfast is pizza, as expected, ferried to the break room by Jeremy. Mike manages to eat about half of his before his appetite runs out. This room, with its scuffed, bare floorboards and faded wallpaper and buzzing fluorescent lights, isn't the most pleasant environment to try and rest in, but he's napped in worse places. Still, sleep doesn't come easy. Every time Mike closes his eyes, he sees that red glow.

When he finally manages to drift off, he dreams of Bonnie's awful, beautiful smile.

* * *

Fritz wakes Mike up by kicking him in the side. Gently, but still – ouch.

“10 o'clock. Wake the fuck up.”

Mike stays silent out of habit, blinking until his surroundings fall into place. He's in the backroom, no, the break room, stretched out on a bench with something draped over him. He's still wearing his uniform.

“What's going on?”

His voice cracks embarrassingly. Fritz's mouth quirks up, but he lets it pass without comment.

“10 o'clock. Up and at 'em or whatever.”

Mike sits up, fabric pooling in his lap. It's his jacket. The tear has been mended with stitching so small it's invisible. He can only find it by searching with the pads of his fingers. A lump forms in his throat.

“Where did this come from?”

“Dunno. I left to do a thing, it was there when I got back.” Fritz shrugs. “Didn't Scott or Jeremy leave it for you?”

Mike shakes his head, clutching the jacket tightly. “Bonnie took it yesterday. He said – he said I'd get it back, but...”

All of a sudden, Fritz is right up in his face.

“Wait a fucking second. Bonnie talked to you?”

“Yes? I mean, it was general stuff, probably just pre-recorded, but yeah. He talked to me.”

Fritz's mouth thins, his eyes hard.

“Let's get out of here. We'll talk after your shift.”

There's no arguing with eyes like that. Mike's not even sure he wants to. If there's something odd about the way Bonnie treats him, he wants to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on schedule!
> 
> So, how many of you remembered the jacket? ;)


End file.
